Something Completely Different
by wryter501
Summary: A collection of short(er) A/U stories. Ch.1-4 Arthur Chooses a Mage-guard - future/scifi, child!Arthur&Merlin, more. (Also, Druid-Prince Merlin changes places with condemned captive Arthur... And inhuman!Merlin based on The Tempest...) New chapter! modern a/u; Arthur accidentally makes a crisis-hotline connection and a stranger-friend. (no slash)
1. Arthur Chooses a Mage-guard

**A/N: This will be a collection of short stories that are A/U and unconnected to each other, in no particular order, unknown number in total, and updates completely random, whenever I'm motivated to write another. As in, "** _ **And now for something completely different…"**_

 **Tale the 1st: Arthur Chooses a Mage-Guard**

"Leave your helmet in the hover, Arthur."

His father's voice is impatient, almost harsh above the air-swooshing of the hover- and rocket-carriages. Arthur almost turns his heel on the dura-crete curb to toss his helmet onto the front passenger seat of his father's sleek vehicle before the airlock hisses the vertical door down and sealed. The helmet bounces to the foot-gap and he bites his lip, looking up through his lashes to see if his father will scowl and scold. If he's old enough for a mage-guard of his own, he's old enough to remember to leave his helmet behind in the hover. In a few years, he won't be required to wear one at all – but the law's the law, his father says, even though their driver's never had an accident over the road or in the air.

But his father only reaches to pull one corner of Arthur's shirt-collar out of his over-tunic. His eyes are occupied with other thoughts, that Arthur's mistake hasn't distracted him from. Which is good. Behind his father, Mage-guard Gaius in his not-there-gray uniform raises an eyebrow – in sympathy, not blame.

"Are you ready for this," Arthur's father says, looking through Arthur's forehead. "It's a big responsibility. Training your first mage-guard."

Arthur holds his breath, worried that his moment of excited inattention has caused his father to rethink the morning's activity, but his father turns toward the building without further hesitation.

"My first?" Arthur feels safe and curious enough to say, skipping to keep up with his father's longer stride, over the sectioned dura-crete of the walkway before the mirror-building towering a full hundred stories above them. Other people walking give way before them for his father, who ignores everyone as usual.

"Well," his father says, pausing to allow Gaius to punch in the door-code. "You can't expect to keep the same mage-guard all your life." The door makes a sighing noise as it dematerializes, and Arthur's boots clatter over the slight suck of the entry-rug, cleaning any dirt that might have stuck there between the hover-carriage and the building.

Arthur _had_ expected that, actually. "Why not?"

His father makes an impatient noise, flashing his hiero-badge at the nearest armed attendant, who nods to allow them to pass to the banks of vertical personnel transporters across the lobby.

"People with magic do not age at the same rate as people without," Gaius tells Arthur neutrally. Arthur glances at his father, who's evidently going to allow the walking tutorial this time; he doesn't always, though Gaius knows _everything_ about everything that interests Arthur. "It depends upon the amount of magic, and its rate of use."

Arthur steps carefully over the dark line of the scary gap between the polished floor of the lobby and the rough-knobby floor of the vertical transporter.

"Is that why you look so old?" he asks Gaius.

Who glances at his father over Arthur's head, before answering in the same emotionless tone. "Yes, Arthur. My skill is minimal, and I am called on to use it frequently. Therefore I appear to have many more years since I was made, than is fact."

Arthur ponders that, as his father programs the transporter. It makes sense, but he thinks there's probably more to it. Why wouldn't his father want Gaius to be more powerful, especially if he makes his mage-guard use magic all the time? Why would he allow Gaius to be used up more quickly? He'll die sooner that way.

Gwen's cat died, all stiff and lifeless under her soft fur, and Gwen cried, and Arthur didn't want that to happen to Gaius. He can't imagine life without his father's mage-guard – but of course, he might feel less attached to the old man after he gets one of his very own.

The vertical transporter begins to move, distracting him – downward, so Arthur realizes the building had underground stories, too. He likes the sensation of descent best of all transporter directions; he jumps off the floor to feel that extra half-second of weightlessness before his boots settle.

"Arthur," his father says, stern but still thinking of something else.

"What do you think you might like to name your mage-guard?" Gaius asks him.

"I don't know." Arthur thinks about how his class at school argued over a name for the Komodo dragon in its glass tank at the back of the room, and it wouldn't even come or notice or care. "Don't mage-guards come with names?"

"Some of them do."

Arthur's father turns his head to look at him, and the discussion of names makes Arthur feel faintly guilty, like he's done something wrong. His father lectured him for hours, before deciding to let him choose a mage-guard, on the proper treatment of that particular menial. Training was important, like a pet. Like one of the big military were-dogs, something powerful and dangerous, but if handled correctly, it would die before biting the hand that fed it.

When his father said that, it made Arthur think of his best friend at school, Gwaine, when it's his turn to spoon vegetable mash into the baby's mouth at dinnertime. He sometimes stays with Gwaine's family after school; Gwen's family more rarely because even though their living quarters are all in the same building, Gwaine's father works _with_ Arthur's father, while Gwen's father works _for_ Arthur's father, and there is a Difference.

The vertical transporter slides to a stop, thudding the last inch into place before the door hisses open, hidden-smooth in the wall. Arthur follows his father onto the polished floor of another hallway, and watches the reflection of overhead lights move past them, sometimes hopping as they walk to avoid stepping on the glow-spot.

He wants a mage-guard with enough magic that Arthur can keep him his whole life. That way, he won't be used up and die, and he won't be killed on accident like Gwen's cat, who ate Arthur's portion of their allotted snack from the kitchen when she brought Fluffy to their apartment, and died of poison. He wants a mage-guard who isn't a pet like a slow-deaf lizard or a lazy-careless cat or a fanged were-dog. He wants a mage-guard who will talk to him like Gwen and Gwaine do.

Not a pet. Not a servant, like Gaius is to his father, but not even a friend. He decides – without telling his father – that he wants a mage-guard who will be a little brother, and that means, enough magic so he won't outgrow Arthur. Gwaine has three little brothers – four counting baby Mordred, who always spits the squash on his self-washing bib. Why can't Arthur have at least one?

"Wait here, Gaius," Arthur's father commands, pausing at an unmarked door that looks like wood but isn't.

"As you wish, my lord." Gaius sets his feet and folds his hands as if he can wait all day without getting stiff and sore – and his faces looks as if he doesn't mind it.

Maybe he doesn't; Arthur isn't sure. He _is_ sure he doesn't want his mage-guard to pretend to like him, as some of the kids at school do because their parents want them to be friends with Arthur's father's son.

His father flattens one hand on the translucent panel next to the door, and it shimmers pre-arranged permission, dematerializing to let them inside.

Inside it looks like the medical clinic and the school science lab, all at once. Arthur looks around curiously at screens and banks of buttons and toggles and levers – and one clear full-length flexi-glass window panel. His feet move without his meaning to, and he peers into another room that seems bare but for a floor-to-ceiling column, wider than he could put his arms around, and full of murky-pearl liquid. A man in a white tunic and trousers moves into view from behind it, scrutinizing it and type-swiping the vid-tab propped against his other forearm. The man has long hair tied into a single short thick curl at the back of his neck, and a beard; he looks a little like Gwaine's father, but isn't.

"So this is the young master?"

Arthur is startled by the voice of another technician entering the room; it sounds like gravel and needles mixed together. The man is only as tall as his father's shoulder; he's completely bald, his lips are wrinkled and pinched, and his cheeks sag off his jaw, but his eyes are piercing yellow-green.

"This is my son, Arthur," his father confirms, and he sounds so proud Arthur twists around to look up into his face.

"Normally I would say, seven is too young." The bald technician reaches for Arthur's wrist and draws him to one side, the column in the next room disappearing from view as they move. Arthur's father says nothing, so Arthur follows the technician obediently. "But for _your_ son, sir…"

"Exactly so," Arthur's father says.

"Now, Arthur, let's begin." The technician taps a screen to life, and angles it so that Arthur can see better – a human figures is central. It appears naked, outlined by a spidery white grid, but isn't clearly boy or girl.

That makes him blurt a question as soon as it occurs to him. "Can I have a girl?"

Arthur's father gives a hard sigh. The technician's lips pinch, but he answers without consulting him. "No. We can't make mages of a gender different than the master. You're a little boy, so he will be a little boy."

Well, there went the possibility of a little-sister mage-guard.

"Now," the bald technician continues, "what color would you like his eyes to be?"

Arthur stares at the vague screen-figure, fascinated by the possibilities. "Blue, like mine."

The man's fingers, bent like claws, stutter over the screen, and the two-dimensional figure opens blue eyes, delighting Arthur. This is more fun that he thought.

"Hair color? Yellow, like yours?"

His tone sounds like when grown-ups make fun of children, and it makes Arthur hesitate. No, he doesn't want a mage-guard that looks exactly like him. The eyes are fine, but since _his_ hair is light – "Dark. As dark as… black."

"Good choice, little master." The tech type-swipes another moment, and black hair sprouts from the screen-figure's head. "Like night and day you'll be. Now – figure?"

"What?" Arthur is confused.

"Do you want him to be tall, short, skinny, fat – what?"

"Tall," Arthur says without thinking.

His father clears his throat. "Skinny, not muscular. I do not want him to be able to physically overpower anyone."

"Well, sir, he will still be male, if you see my meaning, but…" The fingers crawled over the screen, and the figure adjusts subtly. But it isn't ugly, so Arthur doesn't protest. He plans to have muscles someday like the were-dogs' handlers, himself – even if his mage-guard isn't going to be a pet.

The technician is explaining how personality will develop with time, along with speech patterns and intelligence, depending on the training. He has a hold of Arthur's wrist again, coaxing him to lay his hand out on one of the screens like the lock-panel of a door.

"This is the only part of the process that is uncomfortable, young master," the bald man tells him, like he's trying a little too hard to be reassuring. Arthur looks over his shoulder at his father. "But it is necessary to bond the mage to you – he'll have half your fingerprints and a match to your genetic code, which will limit alterations to your choice, and make theft or copy virtually impossible…"

Arthur doesn't understand what the man is saying, and stops listening. His father crosses his arms over his chest and watches him back.

And then something – cold, wet – seizes his wrist with a sharp sudden sting like when he put his finger in the stitcher last year. He jumps – from not expecting it, not from it hurting – and turns back to see two shiny pincers retracting into the sides of the screen. For a moment two drops of blood glisten on either point, before they're sucked inside, and the pincers themselves disappear.

The technician turns Arthur's hand, ready with two synth-pads, holding them in place over spots that begin to throb, body-heat and pressure fusing the pads over whatever puncture-marks the pincers made.

"If you'd like, you can watch your mage-guard forming, just there." The tech points to the flexi-glass window. "It will take several moments, but it's an interesting process."

Arthur squeezes his wrist and feels it throb. He steps to the window, feeling a little unsteady from the needles and trying not to let his father see it; he's glad when his father moves closer to the technician playing his banks of controls. Arthur is careful not to touch the clean, clear material separating one room from the other, and notices that the second tech has disappeared.

There's an almost-flash in the column of pearly liquid, like cloud-lightning. And it starts to swirl faster, like stirred paint. Arthur holds his breath so it won't fog the flexi-glass, and imagines he can see arms and legs and a head with black hair – and then he _can_ , as the silvery sheen gathers into a glowing shape, leaving what looks like clear water behind in the column.

Arthur has a moment to wonder about that color – if the mage-guards' clothing is part of them, or if that color is chosen because of how they're made.

And then, he's aware of tension at the other end of the room.

"What's happening," his father's voice demands. "Why is it doing that. I said I didn't want –"

"I'm sorry, sire, I can't - The magic generator seems to be spontaneously overloading. I'll try a reduction of the quantity gauge, but that never –"

"Do something!"

"I can't – I can't! It's in the red, now… it's in the black… it's going to –"

Arthur is aware of an odd excited thrumming in the air, vibrating the flexi-glass just a little bit hazy. He can't look away from the column in the other room and the shape inside it – he doesn't know if he wants to –

Time grinds to an abrupt and audible stop.

Then explodes in light and sound, blinding and incomprehensible.

Arthur gasps, ducking and shielding his eyes as the window shivers, then stills. He feels pressure against his body like the air-swooshing of a passing hover-carriage, and when he drops his hand and blinks glittering bits of light from his eyes he sees that the column is gone. It's a stump in a sea of glinting glass-sand, rippling away to the edges of the white room with the splash of released liquid.

The tech and his father are both speaking at once, too fast and too loud; Arthur ignores them to stare at the figure floating like a hover-carriage above the stump of the column, unfolding its legs and lifting its head.

Black hair, blue eyes, a skinny little boy appearing a few years younger than Arthur. The boy looks right at him, and doesn't smile exactly, but his eyebrows are up, and he's alert. Arthur lifts his hand, slow and deliberate, and lays his palm on the flexi-glass between them; he supposes cleaning fingerprint-smudges isn't going to be a big deal to the adults after whatever just happened.

The boy blinks, and light flashes again, brief and contained in his eyes, though gold rather than silver. And the flexi-glass hisses into the wall like it's a door.

It sounds to Arthur like the tech is still trying to give his father an explanation – to find an explanation, maybe – and neither of them is paying him any attention. Arthur steps through the gap of the window, and the boy – dressed in the silver trousers and tunic of the mage-guard, form-fitting and without wrinkle – springs up. Off the column, his bare feet dance over the floor without care for the broken bits. Maybe he misses them, stepping between them, or maybe they just don't cut him.

Arthur wonders about _magic_ , and then the boy is in front of him. His head comes to Arthur's chin, and he tips his own up to greet Arthur enthusiastically.

"Hi!"

"Hi," Arthur says, elated but uncertain. "You're… my mage-guard." The boy blinks and grins – his eyes are undeniably blue, and Arthur wonders if he was wrong about the flash of light he thought he saw. "I think I'll name you –"

"Merlin! Hi!"

Arthur knows what a merlin is, from natural-science class. And the little boy does have a certain birdlike quality to him. But, "No, I want to name you…"

"Merlin!" The boy bounces on his toes, swinging his arms.

Arthur scowls. He's decided just that moment that he doesn't want one that comes with a name, he wants to choose what to call his mage-guard brother. "No, I said. I want to name you something else, like…"

Delight oozes out of the boy like air from a pricked balloon. His shoulders slump under the tunic, his chin drops to his chest, and his hands dangle. His eyes only just manage to hold Arthur's and plead. "Merlin?"

Arthur now remembers how often Gwaine complains about his little brothers. He says grumpily, "Fine. Merlin."

Fresh joy explodes from the littler body, and the boy – Merlin – flings his arms around Arthur, pinning his arms to his sides. Arthur panics, uncomfortable and worried that his father will come to the window-space and see.

"No, Merlin!" he hisses, struggling to free himself. "No hugs! Not ever! Men don't hug!"

Merlin releases him, cocking his head questioningly. "Hugs?"

"Yeah. You can't." Arthur reconsiders. Maybe it will be okay for Merlin to hug other people. Like Gwen, or Gwaine – or baby Mordred, who always reaches with sticky fingers. As long as they're okay with it. "We can just shake hands. Like this." He demonstrates where Merlin's fingers should go in relation to his.

Merlin seems to be more interested in the synth-pads on his wrist, picking at the edges stuck to Arthur's skin; Arthur cringes, but the pincer-pokes don't hurt anymore at all. Merlin says, "Men?"

"Yeah. We're going to be men someday, me and you. Me first, of course, I'm older." The thought of differing rates of ages due to magic quantity and usage drifts across his memory and doesn't linger. "No, keep those fingers together, and straight."

Merlin tries to obey, but his fingers are like unruly twigs, sticking out where they don't belong. "You?"

"I'm Arthur." The boy beams into his face, forgetting about their fingers, and Arthur retracts. "But I think my dad will want you to call me my lord."

"Arthur!"

"Or maybe sir, lots of people call my dad sir, and probably they'll call me sir, one day…"

"Arthur!"

He's tempted to stamp his foot. Merlin isn't listening, and that will get him into trouble – but Arthur doesn't want to hurt his feelings; his cheerfulness makes Arthur happy, even if he can't show it.

Then Arthur's father steps into the opening of the window, and he turns; Merlin presses against the back of his left arm, but he's wary now, not eager. Arthur folds his hands in front of him, squeezing his wrist to make himself properly serious again – but he can't find the covered cuts to make them hurt.

"Well?" Arthur's father says impatiently, studying them both.

Arthur's mouth is dry; he doesn't know the right answer. But he realizes he isn't expected to when the unseen technician responds.

"The physical process is complete, as you can see, sir, but the sensors on the magic generator are dead after that… whatever that was. Power surge. So it's impossible to quantify the magic this one possesses – it could be a negligible amount, or it could be… more."

Arthur thinks of the flash in the boy's eyes, and the way the window disappeared, rather than shattering like the column did. He squeezes his wrist, and it feels fine.

His father grunts, narrowing his eyes. "What do you think, Arthur," he says. "We can come back next week and make another one…"

A very brief thought flickers through Arthur's head – what happens to this one, then? – and he's very aware of his fingerprints and blood that they'd already used, that had come to life in the shorter boy crowding his elbow. He thinks about _personality development_ , and their introduction, their handshake, and that wide cheerful grin.

"No," he says, as decisively as he can without crossing the line into disrespect. "I want to keep Merlin."

"Merlin, huh?" his father says, and his lips curl just slightly, as if he doesn't think much of Arthur's choice of a name. Arthur is never going to tell him that Merlin is one of the ones that come with a name already. "Well, we'll see. Between you and Gaius, you'll have to make sure of his training, or else –"

"I will," Arthur blurts. Maybe he'll have to treat his little mage-guard like a were-dog after all, rather than a sibling, if he's going to make sure his father will keep allowing Arthur to keep Merlin. "I promise."

"All right, then." Arthur's father looks around the wet shards glittering on the floor; he shifts and a few smaller bits crack under his boots. "I expect a follow-up report, once this incident has been investigated," he tells the technician. "I don't want to be held responsible for any malfunctions later on."

"Oh, but sir –" the technician sputters, but Arthur's father seems to have forgotten him already. "Let's go," he orders Arthur. "I don't want to be later to work than I have to be, after this morning."

He turns to lead them out; Arthur glances back to be sure Merlin is going to follow.

The younger boy's blue eyes dance.

"Hugs," he whispers.

Arthur almost chokes on a giggle, and bites his smile back into the expanding warmth in his chest. He takes Merlin's hand and says sternly like his father, "No."

Merlin clings to his hand and skips to the room's new doorway. Arthur knows already how Gaius' eyebrow will quirk. How Gwen's eyes will light up – how Gwaine will tease. There's so much to show Merlin – to teach him – to share with him. Arthur can't wait.

They cross the tech-room to find Arthur's father already starting down the corridor toward the vertical personnel transporter. Gaius uncrosses his arms and prepares to follow.

"Hi!" Merlin says cheerfully, releasing Arthur and holding out his hand to shake Gaius' like Arthur showed him. "I'm Merlin!"

Gaius raises his eyebrow, and Arthur enjoys the laughter bubbling in his chest, something he can't remember feeling before, or at least so strongly. Maybe it won't be so hard after all, to teach his little brother how to please his father.

For the first time he can remember, he thinks his life might actually be _fun_.

 **A/N: It occurred to me as I reached the end of this, how similar it might be to** _ **Humans**_ **. But I honestly was only thinking of the video games where you can create your own avatar… Whatever impression I evoked, I hope you enjoyed!**


	2. Arthur's Mage-Guard

**As it happens, imagination once prompted won't let go…**

 **Chapter 2: Arthur's Mage-Guard**

"This is the gym," Arthur tells Merlin, hands on his hips as they stand in front of the wall of hooks and cubbies, for shoes and coats.

It's noisy and smelly, lots of kids already there, though never so many that it feels crowded and unwelcoming.

"Wow!" Merlin says, bouncing on his toes and trying to get Arthur to bounce, too. "It's big! It looks like fun!"

"It is fun," he says. "They don't have anything like this in the country, I bet. Just the city. Look – there's the low obstacle course, and there's the high one. There's foam pits and trampolines – and away across there is for the big kids, rings and bars and weights and stuff. I'm in a class, but a lot of the stations, you can do your own thing."

"Wow!" Merlin repeats.

Arthur turns away to hang up his jacket, and when he kneels down to untie his boots, Merlin plumps right down on the floor to take his off, too, tugging with both hands.

"What's _that_?" A voice speaks beside Arthur, and he turns.

Gwaine's next-oldest brother, the one Arthur likes least, and Leon his instructor's son, with a couple of Leon's friends, who are Older. Ten years old, maybe.

"It's my mage-guard," he says. "His name's Merlin." Behind him, Merlin is trying to match their boots into adjoining cubbies.

"You're not old enough to have a mage of your own," Gwaine's brother protests immediately.

"So?" Arthur answers back.

"He's not supposed to be here like he's a normal kid," one of the bigger boys points out.

Arthur doesn't know what to say; his father had told him to take Merlin everywhere with him, but he never thought about rules against mages.

"Hi!" Merlin chirps, jumping up excited to meet them.

Arthur dearly hopes he won't try to hug any of them. "He's supposed to stay with me," Arthur says to Leon, who is watching Merlin.

Merlin sticks out his hand for shaking, just like Arthur taught him. "I'm Merlin!"

"Hi," Leon says, shaking his hand only a little awkwardly. "I'll ask my dad, Arthur… He's pretty new, though, isn't he? Are you sure he isn't going to…" He waves a hand like he's not quite sure what trouble a brand-new mage might get into.

"I'm going to do everything!" Merlin announces, not really understanding, either.

Leon's friends snicker. Arthur begins to wonder if they should've had Gaius come with them, after all, even though Merlin's presence is intended to make the old mage unnecessary for Arthur's safety.

A whistle splits the noise of the air momentarily, drawing their attention to their instructor, who's clearly waiting for them to begin the class with stretches and drills, on a soft mat in a circle. Leon's friends respond immediately, and Leon trails them with a friendly _You-coming?_ sort of smile and lifted eyebrows for Arthur. Gwaine's brother sneers and runs off before Arthur can ask if Gwaine's coming today.

But he's only just into the second stretching position on the mat with the others when Gwaine hustles in the door and toward their group, half bent beneath Mordred – who's just had his first birthday and can walk four steps in a row – chubby legs around his neck, and out of breath.

"Sorry I'm late," Gwaine gasps to their instructor. "My brother was supposed to watch this one today…"  
He swings Mordred down into his arms, straightening and searching the busy gym for his next-oldest brother, the one Arthur doesn't like. Leon helpfully turns to do the same, but the instructor, Leon's father, scowls with impatient disapproval for the tardiness and disorganization.

And Merlin bounces up from his attentive crouch, eagerly focused on Mordred – maybe the first person he's met who's smaller than he is. Mordred stares back for a second, then leans forward in Gwaine's arms to snatch at Merlin's black hair.

Arthur has an idea. "Gwaine!" he says. "Let Merlin look after Mordred."

"Huh?" Gwaine responds, abandoning the search for his next-oldest brother to notice Merlin for the first time.

"Merlin," Arthur repeats. "My mage-guard."

Gwaine sends a glance down Merlin's silver-gray uniform to his bare feet. "Mage-guard? Really?"  
"Boys!" the instructor warns, intolerant of interruptions to their class time.

"Yeah, okay," Gwaine agrees quickly. He sets Mordred down and steps on the heels of his boots to take them off, before tumbling into the fourth stretching position with the rest of them.

Arthur does the same, aware that behind him, Merlin is down on his knees extending his arms to Mordred. He suggests cheerfully, "Hugs?"

That's all right, then. And a moment later Arthur turns his head to see Merlin staggering away with Mordred plastered to his front in a clinging-monkey hug, Gwaine's boots banging against them both as he carries them back to their proper place by the wall-cubbies.

Halfway through the class, while he's waiting for his turn to run the obstacle course, he notices Merlin and Mordred on a nearby floor-trampoline, both bouncing delightedly with the baby's hands in Merlin's for stability and balance.

"When did you get him?" Gwaine asks in Arthur's ear, behind him in line.

"This week. Next week I can take him to school, if my dad says he's adjusted well enough."

"Do you have to teach him _everything_?" Gwaine questions. He has four younger brothers; he's well acquainted with what little boys have to be taught.

"Not really," Arthur says. "I mean, he can talk and feed himself, and only has to be shown once, things like how the bathroom works-"

"And he does whatever you tell him to do?"  
Arthur hesitates. "Not really…"

"Pendragon! Pay attention! It's your turn – go!"

By the end of the hour, Arthur is tired and sweaty and content that he's done his best, and improved. And there hasn't been any interruption or trouble from Merlin or Mordred.

They're waiting for Arthur and Gwaine by the cubbies, when the class dismissed makes its straggling way toward boots and jackets and the outer door. Mordred is sitting on his bottom on the floor, kicking his feet periodically as Merlin, sprawled on his belly facing the littler boy, attempts to lace the tiny boots – and both of them giggling over the game.

One of the older boys says, quite loudly behind them, "No, he's not _real_. Mages aren't real."

Arthur slows to look back, and catches Leon's hesitation, like he wants to contradict the statement but can't do so confidently.

"He is too real," Arthur tells the older boy; he doesn't know his name. "He eats and sleeps and… learns things. And laughs."

The boy sneers. "Does he cry?"

Arthur stops to think about that, because Merlin has been unfailingly cheerful in the days since he was made. "I guess… he hasn't yet. Why would I want him to?"

"Bet I can make him cry," the big boy boasts, pushing past Arthur.

"Hey, wait," Leon protests, trying to catch him. "He's allowed to defend himself, or Arthur, with magic."

Gwaine didn't hear this conversation; he went on when Arthur stopped, to kneel and finish Mordred's boots. Merlin scrambles up at their approach with the same uncomplicated enthusiasm he displays for every new person or process he encounters.

"Hi! I'm Merlin!" he says to the big boy, sticking out his hand for shaking.

"Huh! You're stupid, is what you are," the boy sneers, slapping his hand away. The others crowd close behind their shoulders, curious and interested.

Merlin looks around at them, contemplative rather than intimidated. Arthur doesn't know how to rescue his mage-guard or himself, or even if he should. "I'm… not stupid," Merlin says. Then, more decisively, "I'm just new."

"New – and little – and ugly!" the big boy jeers, stepping so close that Merlin has to move back to look up at him properly.

The others laugh and Gwaine stands, slinging Mordred onto his hip and scowling. Merlin's black brows draw together, and his lips purse like he's pouting – or thinking. He looks at Arthur as if perfectly aware that Arthur's choices had set his physical parameters.

"Am I ugly?" he asks Arthur.

"No!" Arthur says emphatically, and Merlin's face clears.

"I'm not ugly," he informs the mean boy cheerfully.

"You're too stupid to know you're ugly."

Merlin's grin lights with unintentional mischief. "You're repetitive," he announces.

Too much for Gwaine, who cackles out loud. And Gwaine's laugh is irresistible, catching most of the rest of them. Arthur giggles too, watching the big boy – who can't think of an adequate insult - redden with temper, turn his back and leave in a huff.

"Well done, Merlin," Leon says, following his friends.

"He's funny, Arthur," Gwaine says, his grin brightening his eyes. "Would you trade him for-"

"No," Arthur says happily. "He's mine."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Within the first month, Arthur has occasion to test both his declaration of ownership, and the question of whether his new mage-guard brother can cry.

'No hugs' progresses and expands into a whole list of prohibitions for Merlin, a couple of which are Gaius' idea, but most of which are meant to train Merlin in Proper Behavior, as Arthur himself has been trained by his father. He doesn't know if Uther would ever change his mind and make Arthur get a new mage, but he doesn't want him to, either.

So there are Rules. Like, when his father is home, Merlin isn't to speak unless he's answering someone, and he isn't to sit unless he's told to – and if Arthur's father is busy in his office-nook, they are still to be Careful and Quiet.

And, even when Uther isn't home, there's no running in-quarters, and no throwing balls in-quarters, and no leaving wet towels or game pieces on the floor. And no talking with food in your mouth, and no singing at the table, and no sneaking out of bed after lights-out.

Tonight, Arthur isn't sick, exactly. It's just, the second day he has a runny nose, and the tickle in his throat is making it feel sore. And he can't get to sleep because he can't quit coughing a dry little cough, and trying to swallow when he doesn't have any spit.

"Arthur?" Merlin whispers in the dark of their shared room. He doesn't have a bed like Arthur's, just a cot with blankets and a pillow, but he's delighted that they're _his_.

Sleepy and petulant, Arthur says without thinking, "I want a _drink_."

The cot frame squeaks, and a line of light opens at the doorway. Arthur sits up in bed, wider awake now from alarm.

"No! I didn't mean it! You're not supposed to!" he hisses – and then has to cough again.

"Be right back," Merlin whispers, and slips out to the hall.

But the lights mean someone is still up, and it won't be just Gaius without Uther. Arthur tries to hold his breath, listening for Merlin to make it to the bathroom and run a rinse-cup of tap water… He waits. And waits.

And then hears raised voices from much further away than the bathroom at the end of the hall. His father's voice, sounding irritated – then angry.

Arthur clutches his blanket, trying to _will_ Merlin back into the room, the whole thing over and forgotten – but it doesn't happen. And it's his fault that Merlin broke a Rule – he shivers, throwing off his blanket and creeping out to the hall.

"…Bought and paid for you, and this is the thanks I get!" his father growls. "I can delete you just as fast, boy…"

Down the hall by the closed transporter panel, Uther looms over Merlin, gripping a fistful of silver-gray tunic so that Arthur's little mage-guard is up on his toes and bent backwards.

"No, please! I wasn't – Arthur wanted a drink, and citrus is good when you're sick-"

"You're a liar and a thief," Uther declares, and Arthur freezes at the hard, ugly sound of the words. His father gives Merlin a shake that throws the little boy off balance. "Arthur's been asleep for an hour, so you thought you'd play with the kitchen-comm and order yourself an extra measure of-"

"No, sir!" Merlin protests. And Arthur cringes because it's a Rule, that his father is never to be contradicted, doesn't Merlin remember that?

Uther uses his free hand to cuff Merlin on the side of his head, and then Arthur darts down the hallway, breaking Rules himself.

"Father, please!" he says, and has to stop to cough. "I told Merlin to get me a drink – I thought, some water from the bathroom-"

Uther spares him a surprised glare – but isn't appeased. "See?" he demands of Merlin, shaking him again. "No one gave you permission to requisition-"

"He was just trying to be nice," Arthur interrupts. And it is Wrong, to interrupt and contradict.

"So he breaks the rules and encourages you to defiance," his father spits wrathfully at Arthur. "Who is training whom? Maybe I was wrong, and you're not old enough to handle a mage of your own properly!"  
"It isn't his fault!" Merlin speaks up. "He tried to tell me – I didn't listen!"

"Shut up!" Arthur's father barks.

Deliberately, he slaps Merlin again – this time harder, and Merlin cries out, flinching and lifting his arms to cover his face and head, palms out. Arthur thinks for a panicked moment that this might be the first time Merlin has experienced _pain_ – and wonders if he's going to do magic to protect himself. To hurt Arthur's father back.

"Don't you dare raise your hands against me!" Uther bellows, releasing his hold on Merlin's tunic in a shoving gesture, and cuffing him again.

Merlin can't retreat farther than the wall, and stumbles, crouching down in his first real display of fear – and it makes Arthur feel sick to his stomach. Worse than if Merlin had fought back.

Uther makes to swing at Merlin again, and his fingers are closed into a fist.

"Stop it!" Arthur shouts, darting between them with his back to his father, hugging Merlin's head. "He's just little! He's still new, he'll learn better. And he's mine anyway, not yours – you said so, that I would have to punish him. Not you. He's mine."

Merlin is trembling against Arthur. Uther breathes heavily twice, before Arthur dares to let go of Merlin and turn to face his father's fury, hoping he's diverted it to himself.

"Fine, then," his father says, his eyes narrowed. "Your mage breaks the rules again, and you'll be the one to hit him. Do I make myself clear?"  
Arthur's throat hurts when he swallows; he manages a nod.

"Back to bed," Uther orders. "And not another noise out of either of you – I've important work to get done tonight."

"Yes, Father," Arthur mumbles.

Uther moves back, and Arthur drags Merlin to his feet, tugging him in a scamper back to their room, before his father changes his mind and decides to hit one or both of them again. At the door, Merlin resists his hold, and because Arthur's father has moved out of sight, Arthur stops.

Tears roll down Merlin's face, the skin of his cheeks bright red on one side and ashy-pale on the other. "I'm sorry," he whispers miserably. "I forgot – I didn't think."

"It's not your fault, it's mine," Arthur whispers back. "I'm supposed to teach you."

"I won't make you have to hit me," Merlin promises – and Arthur silently vows never to hit Merlin, no matter how he disobeys.

The next moment, Merlin's expression clears – and he's reaching for Arthur's throat. For one startled moment Arthur begins to draw back from the abrupt touch on such a vulnerable part of him, but the next second Merlin's eyes flare gold.

And the tickle is gone. Arthur swallows some spit, and it doesn't hurt.

Magic.

"Get in bed," he orders in a hurried whisper, stuffing them both through the door and closing it behind him. "And go to sleep."

The cot frame creaks. "Good night, Arthur."

He dives into his own blankets, trying to cuddle them into a safe little nest where he can forget the look on his father's face – and the one on Merlin's.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur stands on a low stool before the dressing-room mirror, scowling in his concentration on making a perfect knot in his sash – over one shoulder of his fitted jacket, down to his hip to meet the length that circles his waist. He squirms with the need to do the knot at his belly button so he can properly use both hands, but that always makes it turn out crooked.

Behind the bath-curtain, Merlin hums and splashes in a way that tells Arthur he's playing, not washing. Sometimes he wishes he was still young enough for toys in the bath – or that he can conjure them like Merlin can.

"Arthur," Merlin says. "Teach me to whistle?" He makes several hoarse, spitting sounds in a childish attempt.

To show his superiority in all things, Arthur lets out a shrill whistle, designed to call attention on a busy ped-walk. "It's easy," he says. "You squeeze your lips together and curl your tongue a little, and take a deep breath-"

"I thought that was for kissing," Merlin says.

" _Mer_ lin!" Arthur exclaims, scandalized; though he doesn't _really_ understand, he knows his mage-guard has said something Naughty.

Unseen behind the curtain, Merlin's snicker sounds very self-satisfied; Arthur can't help smiling, though he tries.

Merlin seems to take it as his job – along with protecting Arthur with magic – to make Arthur laugh. To shock or pester him out of the Proper Behavior ordered by his father. Because ever since things went Wrong at Merlin's creation – the column exploding and the magic quantity gauge not working, and Merlin emerging with his own name – the younger boy laughs out loud at the Rules when he's alone with Arthur. Or when it's just Gaius, or Hunith, the cafeteria tech who most often delivers their meals to their apartment, or gives them snacks when they sneak down to the kitchen level.

Arthur's sash is behaving as Merlin does – which is, contrarily. Arthur gives up and turns around to sit on his bottom on the step-stool, elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.

"You're going to make us late," he observes, not really caring. School isn't interesting unless it's something he can tell Merlin afterwards, like how a flying dragon is really a lizard, but it can glide forty feet from tree to tree. Merlin always remembers everything he tells him about school. However, any breaking of Rules is usually reported to his father, who will then be Disappointed.

"No'm not." Splash, splash. "We've got twelve minutes til we have to leave. That's plenty of time."

"How can you know that, and not know how to whistle?" Arthur asks, mildly exasperated.

Merlin makes a sound like _I-don't-know_ with all vowels, unconcerned.

Sitting like this, Arthur's nose is less than a yard from Merlin's gray mage-suit. Buttoned tunic, trousers, buckle boots. It is, he understands, part of Merlin somehow, an extension of his magic. It won't hold a spill or stain – they once spent a messy hilarious afternoon in the kitchens proving it, while Hunith and the other workers pretended not to watch, or chuckle - and it will grow along with Merlin. Also, it won't let anyone else wear it. They proved that also – the garments kept shrinking and shrinking when Arthur tried to put them on, but when Merlin touched them to shove an arm or leg in, it fit perfectly. So far he hasn't grown, though – maybe because he hasn't had a chance to use a _great_ deal of magic – so they can't prove the other part of the claim about mage-suits.

But… that doesn't mean that Merlin _has_ to wear it, does it?

"Hey," Arthur says aloud, slowly, still thinking. "What if… you wore some of my clothes one day? Saturday, when we go to the gym again?"

The curtain parts to show a triangle of the bath, and Merlin's puzzled face. All his black hair is plastered down in front, and sticking up in the back. "Yours would be too big for me," he says. "Anyway, why would I want to wear your clothes? Those are mine."

Arthur warms to his idea. "They don't have to fit perfectly. And then, people won't know you're my mage when they look at us."

Because people look at Merlin _differently_ than they look at Arthur, even when they're walking side by side. He doesn't understand that any better than he understands kissing, but it bothers him.

"I like the way people look at us," Merlin informs him. Briefly he inspects the insides of his hands – likely pruney; he always stays in the water that long – then hangs onto the side of the bath to paddle with his feet, invisible in the water behind him.

"They look at us like –" Arthur is still dissatisfied – "like I'm a spoiled brat, and you're an untrained were-pup."

Merlin grins. "They look at us like they know you're important, and I've got the best job in the world. Protecting you with magic. I like it that people know that."

"You like pickles on your peanut butter and jelly sandwich," Arthur reminds him. "You're weird."

Merlin hums, content to be weird, and disappears behind the curtain again. And his towel rises from the bar next to Arthur's – they'd have separate facilities when they got as old as his father and Gaius, but for now it's sharing – and flows through the air and over the curtain, as the vac-drain sucks at the bathwater. Sometimes Arthur worries that these little bits of spontaneous magic will use Merlin up – but he still looks two years younger than Arthur, so that's okay for now.

"I'm going to wait by the transporter," Arthur says, pushing up from the stool and leaving the bathroom.

"I'll be a minute and two-thirds," Merlin answers.

There's a rug at the end of the hall before the doors of the personnel transporter connecting them to the lobby – and theoretically to the other quarters on other stories of the building, if permission has been granted – and Arthur waits there, counting seconds by the time-keeper strapped to his forearm, over the sleeve of his shirt and under his tunic.

At 7:24, he hits the button for the transporter. Eleven seconds later the proximity alarm chimes, and the door whooshes open.

Merlin appears at the far end of the hall, buckle-boots clomping as he sprints to slip through the closing doors – eyes flashing gold to delay them one second – and crashes into the back of the transporter next to Arthur, panting and grinning.

"I said you were going to be late," Arthur reminds him.

"Well, I wasn't," Merlin says cheerfully.

"Only 'cause you skipped combing your hair, again." Arthur tries to get the half-dried flyaways to curl in the same downward direction. Merlin bats at his hands – he slaps at Merlin's, and one of them flashes out to rumple Arthur's properly-combed hair.

Then it's war. And they arrive in the lobby giggling and disheveled, still trying to hit each other's hands more often than being hit.

Merlin throws his head back and laughs right out loud just as the door of the transporter slides open into the wall, and the sound echoes through the lobby of the building, flexiglass-metal-duracrete. Making grown-ups and strangers stop and look at them and Arthur's embarrassed because he isn't acting Properly, and because he's older than Merlin. And his owner, sort of.

"Be quiet, and come on," he hisses furiously, squaring his shoulders and stomping toward the door, not looking around, like his father does when he's mad. Merlin skips along at his side, unbothered by anyone watching.

Once outside the door, the air feels cool and whirled, as always, by the high-speed hover-carriages just beyond the ped-walk. And the people using it are even further strangers than the familiar faces in the lobby of their own building. Arthur turns on Merlin, scowling, not slowing as he heads for the cross to the school, where they go right down the stairs and under four tracks of hovers before coming back up to ground-level.

"Why can't you ever act Proper?" he demands. Of course it's an exaggeration, Merlin is always Proper when Arthur's father is present, and then Arthur doesn't like it. "I'm supposed to be training you!"

"Is that why you want me to wear your clothes?" Merlin says, cheerfully unrepentant. "So people don't see your mage-guard not acting Proper?"

"No, that's not –" Arthur can't explain if Merlin doesn't understand, and that makes him impatient.

"But see, if I was wearing your clothes, and had to do magic –" Merlin dances back a step as a man using the ped-walk like the track of a gym sprints past. "We could both be in Big Trouble. I'm supposed to look like a-"

His last word is lost in the growl-roar of a were-dog, its huge muscular body thudding into the pavement before leaping forward again – evidently in pursuit of the runner. But in the scattering crowd of the ped-walk, it lands too close to Arthur and Merlin – probably because it can't see short children very well – and when it launches itself again, momentum and proximity and Arthur's own reaction sends him stumbling back.

Off the curb.

Into the flow of hover-traffic.

And Merlin is with him, light as a feather and smaller, his hand just brushing the top of Arthur's sleeve. His head turns toward the oncoming carriages.

His other hand rises, palm outward.

For an instant Arthur believes Merlin is going to halt the hover in midair before it can splatter them both all over its front. But though every hover-carriage is built with collision repulsion above and below and all the way around, it can still happen, especially if one stops suddenly in the middle of the track – and then the next and the next and the next in an enormous pile of collided hovers-

The next instant the heavy vehicle flows upward and over them effortlessly, with no more than an extra gust of warmer air stirring through their hair like mischievous fingers. Like the hover-carriage has suddenly become a higher-flying rocket-carriage.

And the next. And the next. And the next.

Up on the ped-walk Arthur can see strangers' legs running, standing, darting forward, retreating. He thinks he hears someone screaming over the buffeting of the wind underneath hover after hover – all of them sliding heavily right on down the track without so much as an extra bounce.

He looks at Merlin, who still has his palm raised toward the oncoming stream of hovers. Merlin looks back at him, pleased and unafraid and golden-eyed.

"Maybe get back up on the ped-walk?" he suggests.

"At the same time as you," Arthur answers, dazed and dry-mouthed.

" 'Kay," Merlin agrees, turning his touch of Arthur's sleeve into a request to hold his hand, though usually Arthur doesn't, anymore.

Whoosh. Whoosh. And the next and the next-

Arthur grips Merlin's small, fragile-feeling hand and together they step up on the ped-walk.

Other hands immediately snatch at him, pulling him back, lifting his shoes right off the ground, but even then, the hovers keep flowing smoothly, the invisible air-lump they made in the track flattening out gradually as Merlin follows Arthur.

Voices babble, asking questions, laying blame, exclaiming disbelief. He's patted and turned and ruffled – and after a moment he realizes that there's applause, and he's being patted in congratulation, not examination.

He thinks it's for making it back to the ped-walk unharmed, til he notices that Merlin isn't getting the same attention, and he guesses that – "Well done, boy!" "So amazing, so young!" – is for him as the mage's master.

Then he resists – but Merlin is bouncing on the toes of his boots, gleeful at every compliment Arthur gathers, proud to be the reason for the public's admiration of Arthur.

Well, if Merlin is happy…

But then the people are talking about more serious things. _Incident report – how can there be, nothing happened – get the were-dog's handler – inform his parents, at least?_

The last thing Arthur wants is for his father to be informed of Merlin's magic, though he doesn't examine that impulse.

"I'm going to be late for school!" he declares loudly, flailing to catch hold of Merlin's hand again, and begins to drag him forward.

"Oh!" Merlin says, remembering – and then there's a clear tunnel through the crowd of people toward the school crossing, and they can dash forward unhindered.

Merlin is flushed and breathless and alive with triumph when they arrive at the district education complex.

And Arthur's sash and careful knot is perfect.


	3. AMG: Growing Pains

**Arthur's Mage-Guard: Growing Pains**

Arthur was right about the hugging. Though Gaius more often pats Merlin's head when he successfully demonstrates or paraphrases some bit of magical theory in their lessons, Merlin enthusiastically embraces several of the most familiar people who work or live in Arthur's building – Hunith the kitchen tech, for one, and Gwaine's littlest brother Mordred – and after seven years, doesn't seem likely to grow out of it.

He's just glad Merlin doesn't seem to be aging any faster than normal, in spite of the use of magic they've both gotten to be quite casual about. Arthur thinks the possibility of rapid aging and burnout have never really occurred to Merlin.

Pausing in the doorway of the living room of their quarters, Arthur takes a moment to watch and listen to his three friends.

Merlin, on his back on the floor with his heels up on one couch. Gwen on the rug with him, in the same position but reversed so her feet are on the cushions of the second couch opposite, her head tucked so close to Merlin's you have to look close to distinguish whose black hair is whose; Merlin needs a trim again, probably. And Gwaine, curled on his side away from Gwen's feet on the other couch, his head turned to pay attention to the two on the floor.

"Let me see it again!" Gwen demands.

Merlin obligingly lifts his arm into the air over their heads, for Gwen to examine the material of his sleeve.

"Why don't you just ask him to take it off?" Gwaine suggests, almost lazily.

"Shut up," Gwen says, maybe too quickly.

"I could, you know," Merlin says helpfully. "Arthur and I used to do all kinds of experiments with the cloth. And it really won't stain, and it really won't let someone else put it on, and it really does grow with me-"

Still a few inches shorter than Arthur, he's glad about that. But a little worried, because he said _tall_ the day they made Merlin, and his own growth is slightly behind the pace of the other boys his age. If Merlin is going to be tall, and Arthur isn't, well then-

"And it really will stop a blade," Gwaine concludes, surprisingly.

"What?" Arthur can't stop his mouth from saying, and three pairs of eyes turn his way.

Merlin gets an elbow under him to lift his head toward Arthur – so he saunters back into the room, kicking his legs over to perch on the back of the couch opposite Gwaine, his feet on the seat cushions.

"What do you mean, it really will stop a blade?" he demands, trying to keep his temper cool in front of Gwen and Gwaine. Because Gwaine is one of the most popular boys in their class, and Gwen one of the few girls he's friends with, so impressing them is Important.

"You didn't tell him?" Gwaine says from the other couch – not moving, only shifting his eyes to meet Merlin's glance.

"I forgot," Merlin explains, and tells Arthur un-selfconsciously, "Last month. When we were down in the kitchen getting a snack, and you started talking to Mary's daughter-"

Gwen _looks_ at him, and Arthur can't help blushing.

"And Gwaine was bored, and wanted to test my suit with the kitchen knives," Merlin finishes, unaware as always that he's said anything significant.

Gwaine grunts like a boxer landing a punch, miming the gesture into the air above him. "I still think it'll bruise you, though," he says. "Or break a bone, maybe."

Merlin just grins, and drops down to his back again. Gwen turns on her side like she wants to cuddle him. Arthur is a tangled mix of embarrassment and shock and anger.

"So you just stood there, and let him try stabbing you?" he challenges them both.

"No! Took the tunic off, and he tried stabbing it over the back of a chair," Merlin corrects.

"Omigosh!" Gwen pets his hair, something she's done occasionally Merlin's whole life – only it seems to mean something different now, but Merlin won't notice and Arthur wishes he didn't. Gwaine looks slightly jealous, like he wants someone petting his hair – not necessarily Gwen, but some girl.

Arthur feels that, too. Merlin is a mage, not a regular boy – maybe Gwen is practicing flirting on him, but Arthur isn't sure whether a mage could or was supposed to be interested in the opposite gender like that. Or fall in love – Merlin's feelings about other people usually mirror Arthur's, likes and dislikes…

"I just wonder if some of these properties could be duplicated into cloth that can be manufactured for other uses," Gwen says. She's interested in clothing material and styles and stitchers; she'll probably go into the textile sector when they leave school.

"I highly doubt you're the first person to ever have that idea," Gwaine says, mildly sarcastic.

"Let me see it again," Gwen says, and Merlin lifts his arm again to let her feel – stretch and crinkle – his sleeve.

Arthur feels jealous of both of them. He wants a girl to touch and pet him and pull on his clothes; he wants no one else to want to do those things with his mage-guard. He hates the jealousy, and both of them for causing it, a little… But he says nothing because after all it is a little bit fascinating to watch Merlin and Gwen interact as boy and girl, so un-selfconsciously.

"I," Gwaine announces, eyes still on the couple on the floor, "have to get this assignment done in half an hour, or I'll be late getting home."

"Gosh, yes," Gwen says, scrambling up and over to her own bag. "Arthur, can we look at the vid again, I couldn't make it go slowly enough to sketch each stage of the seed-to-plant process."

"Yeah, I skipped some of that," Gwaine says, leaning over the arm of the couch to dig out his own individual-data-assessor with the attached stylus.

"Merlin, fetch mine will you please," Arthur says loftily. Merlin doesn't move, only tosses out a gesture, and the device comes soaring through the air to Arthur's hand from where he's left it in their bedroom.

"Lazy," Gwen teases.

"I want one," Gwaine adds, referring to the mage, his complaint a running joke.

Arthur keys for his assignment, and props the narrow screen on one knee. "The vid isn't really any good," he comments. "But Merlin-"

"I can do it again!" Merlin suggests, struggling clumsily to an upright position like a fish out of water. He's all arms and legs, elbows and knees, these days. "Anybody got a seed?"

"Get on the kitchen-comm, they're sure to have lots to choose from down there," Gwen advises, getting up on her knees to study Arthur's screen more closely.

"No, wait – I've got popcorn," Gwaine says, digging in his bag again, and flourishing a blue-and-white packet of instant popcorn. "Careful getting it open without triggering the flash-heating reaction. You have to do a little corner – and then some more-"

Arthur isn't really surprised that Gwaine knows how to open a packet of instant popcorn without explosively inflating the flavored kernels; he's the sort of boy to take everything apart to see how it works, regardless of whether he can fit it back together again.

"Like this?" Merlin says.

"Yeah…"

"All right, we got it!" The seeds rattle out of the paper into Merlin's cupped palm.

"Do you think they're still good for growing a corn plant, though?" Gwen says to Arthur with a little frown.

"Doesn't matter," he reassures her. "It's magic."

"Okay, watch." Merlin holds one kernel out on his palm. It twitches and rolls and sprouts, obligingly pausing so the other two can put sketches of various stages into their IDA's.

And, as often happens when Gwaine is in the room, one thing leads to another and another – and they're all encouraged by Gwen's giggling protests – til each of the thirty or forty kernels has exploded into a tall tasseled plant growing out of the carpets, and the living room of Arthur's quarters looks like pictures he's seen of farmland, the long floppy leaves sharply ticklish on the backs of their necks all around.

Gwaine finally pushes a rustling path to the door to leave, and Gwen touches Merlin again. "You're so brilliant."

And Arthur wants to leave, too, or kick Gwen out.

"I'm not brilliant," Merlin contradicts with a wide happy smile. "It's just magic."

"Just," Gwen scoffs, slinging her bag over her shoulder and following the gaps Gwaine has made in the living-room cornfield, toward the transporter. "Thanks again – see you guys tomorrow!"

"Bye, Gwen," Merlin says.

Arthur checks his time-keeper. "Dad will be home in a few minutes."

Merlin looks around them at the cornfield, swishy and green-smelling, and sighs. "Time to put the toys away?"

A wave of his hand shrinks each cornstalk in a moment, back to a handful of kernels. Arthur stows his IDA in his schoolbag, and Merlin goes to brush the corn kernels and the discarded wrapper down the garbage chute.

Arthur's father is late coming home, though – and in a crabby mood when he arrives. He slams himself into his office, and Gaius joins Arthur and Merlin at the small table for dinner – which Merlin eats with Arthur only when his father isn't there to object to the familiarity.

And after, Arthur leaves Merlin doing a word puzzle in three languages – the only way it challenges him, anymore - in their bedroom, and returns to the eating nook where Gaius is still finishing.

Silently he slides into his chair, watching the old mage and wondering how much time and magic he has left, and what happens to mages when they die. Because Merlin still shows no signs of increased aging from the use of his magic. He thinks about whether his father used to hit Gaius when he was new and little – Gaius new and little is a very strange thought – and how it's odd that he wants very much to be like his father and make him proud, but at the same time, he wants to be so different.

"Something on your mind?" Gaius inquires gently.

"I was wondering about mages," Arthur says, trying not to squirm in his seat. Half his attention is over his shoulder, so he can hear if Merlin is coming, in time to shut his mouth. He doesn't meet Gaius' eyes, exactly. "Do they – Can they – um, fall in love?"

"Oh." The simple word is a sigh, straight from the old mage's heart, and a comprehensive answer to Arthur's question. _Yes_.

"You were in love?" Arthur blurts, curious and maybe a bit taken aback. "What happened?"

"Yes. I was in love." Gaius pushes his dishes aside, then laces his fingers together on the tabletop, and looks through them into past memories. "She was a mage-nurse, an assistant to one of the hospital's most skilled… physicians. We were… much in company, in those days. She was very sweet and very patient at times when your father… didn't make it easy. And yes, I fell in love with her."

Arthur tries to imagine under what circumstances his father and Gaius would have been in the hospital often enough for Gaius to fall in love. "Do you mean," he says slowly, "when my mother was…"

Gaius presses his lips together, as if he hasn't wanted or expected Arthur to guess. "You're very intuitive, for your age," he comments. "Yes, it was a difficult pregnancy, as you know, and we saw your mother's doctor every other week, almost. Then every week, then every day… Even though there was – nothing to be done, since she was determined to carry you to term, no matter the cost to herself."

Arthur nods, swallowing a lump in his throat. It hurts and confuses him, to love someone he never really met – but it reassures him at the same time. He wouldn't want to think of his mother and feel nothing.

"But what about you and the mage-nurse?" he asks.

"Your father suspected the relationship," Gaius tells him. "He ordered me never to see her or speak to her – and a few months later, I heard that the physician had taken her mage and moved to another city. Quite far away, actually."

"She didn't want her mage to be with you, either?" Arthur says.

"Oh, no, just the opposite. She told Alice that if we two wanted to marry, she'd support us."

Arthur's eyebrows lift, and he ignores the fact that his father was the cause of disruption, then. "Marry?" he says. "Mages can marry?"

"Certainly. It is rare, since our lives and magic are focused on one person, but it is allowed by law as long as our – er, originator, approves and allows."

"But you can't have kids," Arthur says, bemused.

"No. Essentially we have your blood, your DNA code, but we are formed from magic, in those tubes as you saw with Merlin, and therefore don't procreate our kind as the rest of humanity does. But that does not prevent us from desiring and enjoying physical love."

"Huh," Arthur says, not quite able to keep from making a face at the thought of Gaius – or Merlin, really…

But Merlin could fall in love, and be with a girl. Even get married… Arthur wasn't sure how he felt about that, though. Maybe if he someday married a girl who had a mage in some capacity, then she could be with Merlin…

"Hey, does that mean a mage has to fall in love with another mage?" he says.

"There's no law requiring that, of course," Gaius says. "But… if a mage falls in love with an ordinary person, or vice versa, it can be very complicated, you understand. Because of the position of service, and the perception of pressure to please…"

Because Arthur could tell Merlin what to do or what not to do, and even if Merlin was unpredictable and prone to rule-breaking when he could get away with it, he was very attuned to Arthur's wishes. And it wouldn't be right for Arthur to tell him _no_ if he wanted a girl who wanted him – or if he didn't want a girl who wanted him, but Arthur didn't want her hurt for some reason…

"This is all a bit more mature than you're ready for, eh?" Gaius says kindly. "Merlin is still developmentally a few years younger than you, remember. And mages are by nature more focused on their originator's happiness than their own."

Arthur breathes a sigh of relief, even if it feels a little bit selfish. "Yeah, I guess so – but at least now I know. Thanks, Gaius."

"You're very welcome, young master."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur lies awake in the dark, on his bed in his room, waiting for Merlin to fall asleep on his cot.

 _You'd think_ , he fumes, which hinders his efforts to breathe like he's already asleep, himself, _that by the time I got to be a teenager, I'd have my own room_.

 _Put him in the closet_ , his father suggested when he complained about still sharing space with Merlin. Which bothers Arthur because his father isn't a joke-telling sort of man.

Why can't he share with Gaius? Arthur doesn't bother asking that. Gaius is old and cranky with them when Uther isn't around, and you can barely turn around in his room without running into yourself.

As a calming exercise – and a great way to pass time, Arthur has discovered – he daydreams about Her. The way she tosses her head and sets her curls bouncing. The way she walks and sets other parts of her bouncing. The flash of her eyes and the curve of her lips, at once promising all kinds of delicious ways to boil the blood – and protesting that she's never experienced any of them before.

Ah, Vivian. Sweet scent, soft skin–

Tonight it's not helping time pass, because tonight is different. Tonight he's expected, and invited, and though it wasn't asked or confirmed outright, he thinks there's a very good chance they could end up in her bedroom, partially – or fully! – unclothed. The very thought is enough to make his breathing quicken again.

But.

 _Does he go everywhere with you?_ she asked him mockingly in the hall at school, looking over his shoulder where Merlin was distracting Gwaine from interfering with Arthur's conversation with Vivian.

 _Yeah_ , Arthur answered – seeing the problem with that state of affairs for the first time since Merlin came skipping into his life.

Privacy. Which they don't even bother with in the bathroom, one-hundred-percent of the time. A turned back was just as good as a closed door – but not for This.

The anticipation of ditching his mage-guard for the first time is almost as exciting as the idea of Vivian half-clothed in her bedroom. When he's a man, he'll be able to order Merlin to go or remain elsewhere – probably… hm – but while he's under his father's guardianship, they both have to follow orders.

Good thing his father is away, tonight.

Arthur breathes through his mouth, listening for Merlin's breathing. Slow and deep, and he's not tossing and turning anymore. Arthur eases his blanket and sheet off himself, tilting toward upright, his feet seeking the carpet.

So far so good. Merlin's probably fast asleep.

Arthur stands and – keeping his eyes toward his sleeping guard – finds that day's discarded clothing in the dark. Top of the laundry, squeaky closet door left ajar, but nothing out of routine to alert Merlin to his plans. He slips out of his night things, back into his others, soundlessly he hopes.

Then out the door and down the hall on tiptoes, boots in hand, to call the personnel transport to their quarters. On the rug, under the faint glow of the sensored emergency light, he watches back along the hall toward the bedroom door.

 _Don't wake up, don't get up, don't come out…_

The transporter door slides open with a whisper of hydraulics, and Arthur backs in, hitting the command for the lobby. The door slides shut – and he leans into the corner to put his boots on swiftly and awkwardly, lacing them as fast as he can on the short, stomach-lurching trip down.

The building's lobby is never deserted, in his experience. Always someone coming or going, meeting and standing and talking – and then there's the armed attendant always posted there. No one ever questions his passage - because of his father, but also because of Merlin, he thinks, and wonders briefly if someone will question him tonight, because he's by himself…

The door slides open again with a sigh of cooler air, and he steps out, heading confidently for the street door, for three steps.

The building's lobby isn't deserted. A couple of middle-aged professional women standing talking to the armed attendant, but halfway between the lift and the street door, a young man stands waiting, sideways to Arthur's approach. A young man with sleep-tousled black hair and a silver-gray uniform.

 _How the hell did he – oh. Magic._

Merlin gives Arthur a glance out of the corner of his eye, fully aware of Arthur's intent, and sheepish to have caught him. Embarrassed, Arthur senses, because he expects Arthur to be embarrassed to try and fail to sneak out. Embarrassed because usually he's behind – with – Arthur, to be caught also. It's awkward for Merlin to be the one doing the catching.

Arthur lifts his chin, correcting his march to the door just enough so he'll pass Merlin without running into him. Yes, he sneaked out, attempting to ditch Merlin, but he's not ashamed of it.

Merlin shifts and falls in beside him, silently.

Worth a try. As if he's confident of being obeyed, Arthur orders, "Go back to our quarters and go to sleep. I'll be fine, I won't be long."

"You know I can't," Merlin says in a low voice. He sounds unhappy, but Arthur won't admit the guilt of being the cause. The whole no-privacy arrangement is stupid. "Where are you going?"

Arthur doesn't answer.

"Nothing happened, did it?" Merlin ventures. "Your dad's all right?" Trying to figure out why Arthur tried to leave him behind.

They pass through the doors, out onto the street. Darkness above, electric lights below, fewer people and less noise than the daytime. By half, maybe. Arthur has never tried actually losing Merlin, but at seventeen – okay, _almost_ \- he feels he should be too dignified to take off running and dodging, Merlin at his heels like they're kids playing tag at the gym.

Though come to think of it, Merlin played tag with Mordred at the gym just last week. That reminds Arthur of how Gwaine treats his younger brothers – and especially Mordred as the youngest, whose favorite phrase these days is, _I want to come too!_

"Look, you're probably too young to understand," he says, loftily condescending to his constant companion. And because lately Gwen's interest has left Merlin – though the mage-guard seems oblivious and unconcerned as ever, and they're all still friends. "There are some times when a man needs-"

"Is it Vivian," Merlin says, striding at Arthur's side with his eyes down and his hands in his pockets.

Now Arthur feels like the one who's too young, and he bristles. Well, if it's a choice between Merlin tagging along, and having to call Vivian to tell her he isn't coming at all tonight because he didn't manage to leave his mage behind…

"If you insist on coming," he tells Merlin with a glare, "you will stay where I tell you to stay, as long as I tell you to stay there, and you will not tell anyone else about tonight."

Merlin nods – then adds his own condition, even if he's unaware he's doing it. "As long as you're safe."

Arthur growls to himself, and stalks along the ped-walk, past two cross-streets, til he reaches the building where Vivian told him to come.

It's not as impressive as their building, but the public advertisement for quarters-for-rent is discreet. The doorman glances over his hiero-badge, but doesn't ask him for his destination, and in three more minutes, they're in the transporter up to the eighth floor.

It's not a private conveyance, opening directly into anyone's quarters, but onto a long hall of numbered doors. Merlin trails Arthur down to the end, number eleven, glancing about them with more curiosity than caution.

He presses the visitor button beside number eleven, feeling restless and warm, nervous with anticipation, and shifts his weight.

It's only a moment before she answers on the comm above the call button, sounding breathless in a way that tightens the pleasant tension in his gut. "Arthur? Is that you?"

"Hi, Vivian," he answers.

"Just a minute, I'll let you in."

"Okay," he says, but he thinks she already released the comm button, and didn't her him.

Another moment, and the door – the old-fashioned kind that uses hinges, another indication that the building has lower standards – swings open.

Vivian's curly blonde hair is tumbled on her shoulders, and she's wearing a black silk wrap-around garment with blood-red roses embroidered down the edges – which are loose enough to show white lace partially obscuring her cleavage. She gives Arthur an arch smile – which drops when her eyes go past him to Merlin.

She pulls the door closer to her, blocking the way with her body, leaning out toward him to hiss, "I thought you were coming alone!"

"He's my mage-guard, Vivian," Arthur says, deciding to pretend like this is his decision, rather than a failure in subtlety. "He has to go where I go, but he can wait in another room, can't he?"

"I don't want him in here at all," she murmurs petulantly. "Mages give me the creeps."

Forgetting that he also resented Merlin's presence, Arthur begins to react with offense on his friend's behalf. For one split second, til Vivian bites her bottom lip and slips one finger under a rose-decorated edge to rub the lay of silk, giving him a glimpse of an extra inch of skin. He leans against the doorway, as close as he can get without touching, his entire body humming with heat.

"Well, I'm here now," he says in a low, and hopefully persuasive voice. "My dad won't be out of town again for another couple of months, and I probably can't leave Merlin behind then, either."

She shifts her weight in still-irritated consideration, which draws his attention down her neckline, and leans back as if to look around her quarters, though he doesn't expect anyone else there. _My mother_ , she told Arthur at school, her first day as a transfer student last month, _works nights_.

"All right, I guess," she relents. "Come in."

Arthur follows her through the door, through a little entry and into an open room with a dining set-up at one end and couch and arm-chairs at the other. The lights are dim, and soft instrumental music plays through the speakers. On the table, a dark bottle of something alcoholic - Arthur's rarely allowed to touch the stuff, and then not without supervision – and two goblets.

"I wanted tonight to be romantic," Vivian says, waving a caustic hand at the glassware. "But if you're not in the mood to be alone…"

Merlin's ears are red as he sidles along the wall, out of the entryway and into the dining area of the room. Arthur ignores him to follow Vivian, shimmery and sleek under her black silk garment – and wearing what else underneath? her feet are bare.

"Come on," he coaxes, caressing her shoulders lightly, up and down. "We don't need to sit here and drink that…" Whatever it was. "I didn't come for drinks – I came to be with you."

She turns, which places her right in his arms, so he folds them around her, trying to smile her frown away. After a moment she relents, unfolding her arms from between them – to slip around him and press her body to his and all his blood whirls like a sudden small hurricane. He holds very still, not sure what he should do, and not wanting to make the wrong move.

And then she lifts her head to look him in the eye and he can't help glancing down the line of her throat to the soft round secrets of the rest of her, that she's promised – not in so many words – that he can explore.

"You don't really love me," she says in a throaty whisper – but it's more plea than declaration. "You only want me. There's a difference. And we won't last, if we… if I… just give you what you want."

His mouth is dry, and it's hard to think. His feet have disappeared, and his hands want to _move_.

"I swear," he whispers, tipping his head down to hers – gazing at her lips which part to allow her to breathe more fully, more swiftly. "I do love you – nothing can change that. I just… want to show you I love you. I want to love more of you. In a new way."

The thought occurs to him, that he sounds like Gwaine – who's already done this with two different girls. He sounds stereotypical – but he means it. How can he persuade her of his sincerity?

Not with Merlin standing right there behind them.

She seems to agree, nudging her lips close to his own. "Come on, then."

Turning, she keeps his arms around her, crossed over her chest, and tugs him toward another doorway, the first along a short hall. Her backside rubs him as she walks, bumping awkwardly but thrillingly along behind her.

"You can drink that bottle if you want to," she tosses over her shoulder to Merlin.

Arthur's attention is focused on her, and the dim lighting that shapes and shadows the room ahead of them – the _bed_ – but for a moment he considers Merlin and alcohol. To his knowledge, Merlin has never had any – a luxury not to be wasted on a mage by Uther who buys the stuff. He hopes Merlin will not make himself sick.

And then Vivian reaches behind him to shut the door.

And then Vivian loosens the black silk garment and drops it, revealing her body in pale slopes and curves and lacy underthings.

Arthur's body requests that it be allowed to reveal itself in strange and new ways also. But he's paralyzed as her fingers work their way down the buttons of his jacket, smoothing it off his shoulders, leaving it trapped at his forearms as she unfastens his trousers. He struggles to lose the jacket, and she kneels to unlace his boots. When she stands, she rubs her body all the way up his legs, and he shudders in reaction.

He reaches for her skin, delicate and sweet and smooth and warm – any of it and all of it - moving under his fingertips as she unbuttons his shirt also, backing toward the bed.

Stumbling out of his boots, he closes his eyes at the feel of her hands on his ribs, his chest, pushing fabric away to discard behind him and now he's half-naked. Lace scratches him enticingly but she resists his full embrace – teasing, not rejecting. He tries to kiss her lips and almost trips onto the bed.

She laughs, an exhilarating, husky sound, and ducks her head away from his mouth, retreating backward onto the bed without letting go of him.

His trousers drag at his hips, and he groans, entreaty and mild frustration, but she doesn't object when he collapses among the pillows and pulls her closer. She allows him her sweet-scented throat and ear to kiss and taste, and slips her hand into the front of his trousers.

Light bursts behind his eyelids, and he forgets to breathe, it feels so incredibly good.

Wait, what about the look of innocence, her I-haven't-yet demeanor? She feels confident, like she knows exactly - what – will…

He moans again, clutching her shoulder and hip, straining against her and totally uncoordinated everywhere else. He's going to explode. He's going to-

But she doesn't let him, withdrawing her hand and laughing softly again in his ear.

He opens his eyes again, thinking with disorientation, _Well I've got to make her feel like this too, obviously – so how do I…_

"We need protection first, right?" she whispers.

He nods dumbly, ready to agree with anything – everything – and she twists away from him on the bed, reaching to a small side table and opening a drawer, by the sound of it.

His whole body glows and tingles with anticipation – he's almost panting – and when she turns back to him, smiling and beginning to offer, to show, to use the tiny device in her hand, he tumbles headfirst into her eyes and is lost.

Briefly. Oh-so-briefly.

Because before she can bring her hand back to the V of his open trousers, the door flies open hard enough to slam into the wall – the lights flare blindingly bright and harsh-

Merlin stands there, eyes gold and hand outstretched.

Vivian's whole body goes unnaturally rigid and flops down on the mattress, bouncing stiffly. And her eyes are closed.

Merlin attacked Vivian. For whatever reason. Arthur's first thought is, now the night is over. And probably all his chances with her, also.

Then again – Merlin _attacked_ her. Without provocation – and Arthur can't think around the concept of jealousy. Feelings of furious protectiveness – defensiveness – surge up in him, and he scrambles up from the bed with some intention of coming between them and preventing further action from his out-of-control mage.

Merlin's attention immediately shifts to him, and he raises his other hand in an attitude of surrender. "I didn't hurt her – she's just asleep! She's just asleep!"

That doesn't make it _any_ better.

Fury mounts to rage, that Merlin's jealousy and paranoia would interrupt This – and Vivian will never forgive him. Which means they're finished and he's lost her in such a mortifying way and it's all Merlin's fault – and this will pass through the school as a wildfire rumor, complete with thorough lifelong humiliation and singleness and maybe Vivian or her mother will complain to the authorities…

He's off the bed in an instant, throwing all his weight into a wild swing at Merlin's big mouth and stupid golden eyes.

The impact is lessened because Merlin lifts hands and forearms in self-defense, ducking his chin away and stumbling back toward the corner of the room. "Arthur!"

He uses his left arm, sweeping Merlin's defense away, and punching him again, this time driving his fist forward from beneath. Merlin's head snaps back – and he sees that he's drawn blood, mouth or nose or both.

Good. He's going to punish Merlin for this _so_ thoroughly.

His fist aches – his chest pinches tightly, miserably, unbearably – and he puts his pain into yet another punch, so Merlin will _feel_ how he feels, and be _sorry_ , and _never_ do it again.

"You bastard!" he spits, though Merlin has no human parents anyway. "Just because you can't, or don't want to, doesn't mean you can stop me being with a girl when we're in love!"

"Arthur!" Merlin gasps. His back thuds into the wall; his knees bend, trying to hold him up, and he lifts his hands to deflect Arthur's blows again. "Check her hand! Check her hand, Arthur, she was going to-"

He interrupts the mage-guard with another blow that knocks Merlin's knees out from under him. On the floor, he's not a convenient target. Arthur stands over him, clenching fists that throb with pain, hating him deeply. Wanting to _kick_ him, but he's barefoot.

"Check her hand," Merlin repeats indistinctly, cringing away from him.

He can't stand the sight of the younger boy, and turns away to do up his trousers, fingers trembling on unexpended wrath.

But when he lifts his eyes, they travel reluctantly to Vivian's hand, fingers curled beside her hip to cradle… He steps closer, bends over her to check.

That… isn't what he expected. A tiny bladder attached to a needle. That has nothing to do with…

"She had a guard," Merlin says, rolling to climb to his feet, and staggers. "In the other room. He tried to… The wine – it was poisoned, I think. It was… poisoned. They planned to – they tried to…"

Poison. Arthur stares dumbly at the little needle, the flexible pouch of whatever liquid she was about to squeeze into him. He'd never have felt much more than a little pinch, gone again in a second into all the sensation of the moment.

Merlin saved him.

His mage-guard lurches to the doorway of the bedroom, using both hands to propel himself through, though Arthur makes no move. A moment later he hears the younger boy speak – on the comm, probably.

"Gaius. No, we're not at home. Just – Gaius, _listen_. Something happened, you've got to contact Arthur's father. Someone tried… what? I don't know if it was an assassination or abduction, I guess it depends on what type of drug they were trying to… No, I'm fine. Yes, really. Gaius – yes, we'll come straight home, I promise, then you can see for yourself."

Arthur picks up his shirt and puts it on, careful to smooth it down under his jacket, so no one can look at him and _guess_. His hand is sore. His middle knuckle is split, but already scabbing. He steps into his boots and bends to tie them.

"She'll sleep til city safe-keepers come," Merlin says at the door, still sounding odd – like he's getting a cold. "Gaius is reporting it. I've left a full statement – we can go home and sleep, right now. Your father being who he is, I doubt they'll need much more from us."

Arthur grunts. When he straightens, Merlin steps back out of the doorway, eyes on the floor. Blood on his face… Arthur's blood, essentially.

He's still furious – and conflicted, quite a lot of the fury and the black feeling of hatred is redirected. At Vivian, and whoever she might be working for. At his father, for being both cause and savior in Arthur's trials.

At himself.

He stalks out the door – pulling up slightly at the sight of an enormously muscled man with too much facial hair, slumped unmoving against the wall in the middle of a charred spot, his shirtfront smoking. Behind him, Merlin says nothing, and Arthur leaves the quarters without looking at him.

Did Vivian even have a mother? Was she even a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl at all?

He can't believe he's fallen for… what this obviously was. He's stupid and blind – he endangered himself and Merlin both like a brainlessly defiant schoolboy, himself.

And he hit Merlin. Like his father had, once, and he'd sworn he never would.

Arthur feels like vomiting off the edge of the ped-walk. Or letting a hover-carriage splatter him all over the front of it. Might be a relief from this deep guilt and tainted self-disgust.

Merlin doesn't skip at his side, but drifts unobtrusively in his wake, back to their building, through the lobby. He slips through the transport doors behind Arthur, and manages to remain behind him when Arthur turns from entering the command to bring them to their quarters.

He can't even hear Merlin breathing in the small closed space – and when they reach their quarters and the door slides open to Gaius' worried-stern eyebrows, he brushes past the old man to stalk down the hall to the bedroom. Merlin doesn't follow.

Slamming the door behind him to cut off the light source from the hall, he strips to the skin, scouring himself with his discarded shirt roughly, as if he can rub memories away. He tosses on clean sleeping clothes, falls into bed, and pulls the covers up over him. Hiding like a child. Letting Gaius and Merlin finish taking care of the night's catastrophe. Letting someone else clean up his mess, because he's not a man yet and obviously isn't ready to be.

Sleep won't come.

And so, even though time passes, he's fully aware of the door inching open and a line of light – blocked by Merlin's shadow – widening on the far wall.

"Arthur?" Merlin whispers.

His heart swells into his throat and he can't make a sound. Can't move, not even to turn his face into the pillow to hide a few hot tears that might or might not ease the agonizing soreness inside his chest.

The light flares briefly as Merlin slips inside. He makes no noise undressing, but a moment later Arthur hears the familiar creak of his cot. Ten years they've been together, ten years he's been hearing that sound that means, he's safe and can sleep. Ten years Merlin has been his little brother and best friend, ten years Arthur's been defending him to bullies and strangers as a real person.

Merlin sniffs into his sheets.

Tonight, Merlin was the better man.

He sniffles again, and Arthur remembers hitting him – the feeling of rage, the explosion of pain in his hand, the shock in Merlin's eyes. Probably Merlin's nose is swollen, making it hard to breathe, and Arthur didn't even check to see if he was all right.

Arthur almost chokes himself, trying to keep silent, vowing again that he's going to treat Merlin as his faithful mage-guard deserves from now on and forever. He's not going to be his father.

The sniffing sound comes again, accompanied by an odd little hitch of breath that makes Arthur's ears perk. That doesn't sound like an annoyingly stuffy or swollen nose. Aghast, he realizes that Merlin is _crying_ , that he has made Merlin cry, and his own tears threaten his eyelids hotly.

"Merlin," he manages to say, into the silence of the room.

As if he's been waiting for any indication that Arthur's not asleep, Merlin bursts out, "I'm sorry! Arthur, I'm so sorry!"

"Huh? Why?" he stutters, shocked. "What – are _you_ apologizing for?" Merlin has no reason to be sorry, it's Arthur who should be-

"You liked her." Merlin gulps for breath, and Arthur sits up in bed, trying to see through the dark in the room they share. "I know you liked her a lot. I know you thought she liked you, and you wanted her to like you and I'm sorry your feelings were hurt and I'm sorry I can't do anything to fix that."

It's enough that he wants to. It's too much that he wants to.

Arthur scrambles out of his sheets, crossing the room by feel and by memory, and reaches for Merlin on his cot, crouching on one knee on the carpet. He feels Merlin cringe subtly at his touch and ignores it – and the pang of guilt he feels – to seize his younger, slighter friend. He pulls Merlin close, leaning over the cot and crab-walking his fingers further around the bony resistant ribs.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles into the shoulder of Merlin's sleeping-shirt. "I should've listened to you. I shouldn't have lost my temper, and I'll never do it again. Merlin, I'm sorry."

Merlin huffs a laugh that mixes with a sob, and snakes an arm around Arthur's shoulder-blades. "You follow your heart," he says. "You always have, and I want you to, always. And you will lose your temper again, because you care so much – I like that about you, I'm proud of that about you."

Arthur really _really_ doesn't deserve such a devoted little brother.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he whispers, squeezing tight once before he lets go.

"I'm sorry you were hurt," Merlin returns, releasing him also, but leaning up onto his other elbow as Arthur sits back. "She wasn't the one, Arthur. But I'm sure you'll find the one who is, someday."

And when he does, Arthur thinks, he won't need to sneak out to meet her. Merlin will probably conspire with him to achieve privacy with the right girl. He should have realized that before tonight - but he'll definitely keep it in mind for the future.

"In the meantime," Merlin goes on. "I thought you said no hugs?" His tone laughs at Arthur.

Arthur growls back – as Merlin probably intended – but as he rises to pad back to his bed, and the young mage-guard snickers, he has to wipe another quick tear away.


	4. AMG: Maturation

**Arthur's Mage-Guard: Maturation**

"Are you still mad at me?" Arthur demands, leaning back on the bar stretched across the back of the personnel transporter for passengers' balance and convenience.

Merlin leans in the opposite corner, eyes down and arms crossed over his silver-gray mage's tunic. The corners of his mouth are turned down, too; he's unhappy, which happens rarely, not mad – which Arthur doesn't think he's ever seen. But sometimes when Merlin goes uncomfortably silent and thoughtful, he can be provoked out of it like this. Merlin provokes Arthur out of moods by making him laugh; Arthur provokes Merlin out of moods by making him argue.

"I'm not mad," Merlin says softly. But there is still that line between his brows, and he doesn't meet Arthur's eyes and he doesn't uncross his arms.

"If you're mad because moving out of quarters means Hunith won't sneak you extra food anymore-"

"Hunith snuck me extra food for _you_ ," Merlin interrupts to point out.

At least he's talking again. Arthur pushes upright as the transporter doors whoosh quietly open, and steps out into the corridor. He glances right, then turns left, as he's been told at the pre-interview. Merlin follows behind, not beside, so there's still something bothering him.

"Are you mad because Gwen was accepted into the textiles guild?" Arthur tosses over his shoulder. It's been years since he suspected her of harboring interest in his mage-guard as a male, but he doesn't think Merlin was ever aware of that. "Or that Gwaine's going to train with the were-dog handlers?"

"Why would I be mad about that?" Merlin says, sounding puzzled. "They'll both be brilliant. And happy. And they won't even leave the city, we can see them whenever, as long as…"

"As long as I'm not posted somewhere else," Arthur finishes. "So you're mad that you'll have to go with me, and you don't get any say in the matter."

Merlin doesn't say anything, and the tension is suddenly too much. Today is the most important day of Arthur's life so far, and he's going to make a hash of his chances because his mage-guard is a big girl with girly feelings.

Arthur stops walking, swinging around to shove Merlin into the corridor wall with one hand on his chest. He says nothing either, but glares, and Merlin is startled enough to meet his eyes – and then, he doesn't look away, but only searches Arthur. For what, he doesn't even know.

"I heard you last night," Merlin says finally. "You and your father."

"What?" Arthur says blankly, scouring his memory. Yes, they had a private conversation in Uther's office, but he didn't say anything he wouldn't say to Merlin's face – and anyway, Merlin was supposed to be with Uther's new mage-guard Gilli. Gaius' replacement, a round-eyed youth appearing only a couple years younger than Merlin though he was created only a year ago. A little magic and used often, and ten years went by in one.

And after ten years, Merlin still only looked seventeen.

"You really want to be free of me?" he says quietly.

Arthur swallows. Oh, _that_.

"We haven't been apart for more than an hour since I was made," Merlin goes on, and there's confusion as well as sadness in the blue of his eyes. "You're frustrated. You want to be on your own, and take care of yourself. I know Gwaine was excited when he moved last week. And I know why. I guess… it's natural that you should feel the same, but… I thought it was because of your father that you wanted to be on your own."

They're not late, yet. And maybe it'll be better to get this out in the open before his exams.

"Yeah," he says honestly. "I do feel like Gwaine. I do wonder what I might be capable of, on my own. Making decisions, taking care of myself-"

"I don't tell you what to do," Merlin interrupts.

"You don't have to," Arthur says, mildly exasperated. "I know you so well by now. What you disapprove of, what you'd say I should do. What you think when I do something else and it turns out wrong and you don't even say _I told you so_."

"So you do want to be free of me," Merlin says again, and now he sounds like when Arthur told him the news, Gaius breathed his last. Desperately hoping for some other explanation, but _knowing_.

"The part of me that makes those stupid wrong choices does," Arthur says. "I know you make me a better person just by being around. But you missed the point of what my father and I were talking about."

Merlin cocks his head. "What?"  
"Because it isn't fair that you just go where I go and all you ever do is watch out for threats," Arthur tells him.

"That's my job," Merlin reasons. "And anyway, that's not _all_ -"

"You didn't even go to school properly," Arthur continues. "Sitting there listening every day in the back corner, even if you didn't do the assignments or the exercises or experiments. But you know all that stuff better than I do. If you took those tests-"

"I'm not supposed to take the tests," Merlin objects. "I never helped you cheat."

"That's not what I'm saying," Arthur retorts, frustrated.

He pushes his hand through his hair and glances down the hall – there are other people about, but none passing close enough to hear. But they're wasting time they probably don't have – and he doesn't expect Merlin to understand, anyway. Not without having the principle of the thing pointed out to him, and then reacting like he was being scolded for a shortcoming.

"Part of why Gwaine is excited to get out from his house," he says, trying to make his point succinctly. "Because he knows it'll be his brothers' turn, next. To finish their schooling and take their own tests and be their own man and make their own choices. His freedom gives them a little more freedom, do you see that? And what if you did take the tests, the aptitude exams?"

"I already have a job," Merlin says, confused but reasonable. "I'm meant to protect you with magic." He tilts his chin and shifts his eyes away as a thought occurs to him. "You think I'm not going to earn my keep anymore?"

Arthur growls and spins to stalk away, and Merlin follows. Merlin always follows. Sometimes Arthur wants him to suddenly wheel and stomp off in the other direction and stay gone because he's pissed about his situation and his lack of choice. Even though the thought scares Arthur for himself, he thinks it might satisfy him on Merlin's behalf. But Merlin doesn't, and he never will.

"That's not what I mean," he says.

"I don't understand," Merlin adds, lengthening his stride to walk beside Arthur again. "You don't want me to leave you, but you want me to _want_ to leave you?"  
"It sounds stupid when you say it like that," Arthur snarls.

"Today is about you, Arthur," Merlin says, and he doesn't sound mad or unhappy anymore – not even confused, as if he's given up understanding, and decided instead to address and fix the problem for Arthur. "What you want. What you're going to be. Focus on that, and… let me be happy doing what makes me happy."

Arthur is glad to hear that. And kind of wishes that Merlin has the freedom to want something else – because then if he didn't, and chose to stay with Arthur, it would mean more. But mages, it seems, can't be more than they're made to be.

"This is it," Merlin says then, as Arthur is about to stalk past yet another closed door. "Isn't it?"

He studies the label next to the door, and Arthur takes two more steps to look through a long flexiglass window that divides the room from the corridor.

It's set up like a classroom, a dozen or so desks, each with an IDA-device waiting on them, facing one larger one under a time-keeper on the wall. There are two other guys already waiting, not sitting right next to each other but facing each other and chatting in a way that makes Arthur think they know each other.

"Yeah?" Merlin adds, for confirmation. He waves a hand over the sensor that causes the door to retreat into the wall with a whisper of motion.

Inside the room, Arthur sees a similar panel slide open behind the administrator's desk. He glimpses a woman in a white uniform, with black hair pulled back into a knot, and very red lips. He backtracks to enter the room, Merlin waiting to trail behind him, and registers the presence of another person behind the woman in white – in the silver-gray of a mage's uniform.

The woman in white – she looks like she might be ten years older than him – stops for a moment, brilliant blue eyes going past him to Merlin.

"Ah, Mr. Pendragon," she says, identifying him by the presence of his mage-guard. "You were almost _late_."

The other two young men are looking at him – and at Merlin – in evaluation that's not unfriendly. Arthur glances at the other mage – in what capacity does she serve? – at the administrator's elbow. She's a petite girl, chocolate brown hair in waves to her shoulders, fine pretty features, air of shyness. Her tunic is subtly different from Merlin's; it's feminine.

"Sorry about that," Arthur says, respectful but not subservient. "I'll just sit wherever?"

"That's fine," the woman says. "But your mage will need to wait outside the room."

Not really surprising. Arthur looks at Merlin, who cocks his head in studying the woman a moment the way he always does when they meet new people – like he's reading her mind, or at least her intent, for any indication that Arthur might be in danger.

"Freya?" the administrator adds, making the name an order to her mage.

The girl meets Merlin, gesturing for him to accompany her to the corridor. Merlin meets Arthur's eyes and nods, then moves for the door – pauses to let the girl mage leave the room first – but a moment later is visible through the window. He leans against the corridor wall like Arthur has seen Gaius do a thousand times, waiting on his master. Gaius wore patience like his mage's uniform, as a duty; Gilli fidgets as if afraid he's somehow waiting the wrong way; Merlin looks like there's nowhere else he would rather be, and boredom is an alien concept to him.

The girl leans beside him, and Arthur can't gauge her attitude; he wonders if she's a guard for the administrator, too.

"My name is Nimueh," the woman says. "I'm here to administer your exams, and answer any questions you may have. The nature of the exam obviously discourages cheating, but of course can't prevent it; that's also my task, and one that I take very seriously."

She doesn't say it like she takes it seriously, but like it's a speech she's given many times before. Arthur chooses a seat in the middle of the row nearest the window, as Nimueh goes on stating the parameters of the exams, that are fairly self-explanatory.

And the other two have no questions, and the exams begin.

All sorts, and in no particular order that Arthur can guess. From reaction time to vision accuracy to academics they finished in their required schooling, and the academics for various fields they haven't yet studied. Language and theoreticals and psychology. Even what little physical evaluation can be done at a desk with an individual-data-assessor.

There's no point rushing; you're done when you're done. But as the minutes and hours of the day tick by, Arthur is always aware of Merlin and Freya outside the window. Merlin watches Arthur – and sometimes that affects his answers in the nuances – but he talks to Freya.

And she's not watching Nimueh like a guard, she's slowly warming up to Merlin. Answering less slowly – initiating. Laughing. Even slapping his arm a couple of times; Arthur knows how cheeky Merlin can be. And Merlin is beaming, chattering on to her while keeping his eye on Arthur – and instead of feeling jealous like he'd felt at Gwen's attention to his friend, Arthur feels a great satisfaction on Merlin's account.

He wonders what Nimueh's regular job is, where she works, whether he can get a job in the same building, and what sort of a job it might be.

As far as he can tell, Nimueh is aware of the interaction occurring in the corridor outside the room, but not at all bothered by it. She works with steady focus at the administrator's desk, evaluating the portions of the exam the three of them have completed, at intervals.

The midday meal is brought to them, the only break they all take at the same time. They're discouraged from discussing the test, but Merlin is allowed back into the room, and they introduce themselves. Percival is the big one with short hair; he's interested in all things nautical. Lancelot is the other, with longer hair; he thinks military psychology is fascinating and hopes there might be work in whatever crossover those two fields might have. They were in school in the same district, so they've been friends a long time, but they both respond to Merlin like Gwaine and Leon always have – as if the color of his uniform and his possession of magic doesn't matter in the slightest.

Arthur isn't as sure as either of them, where his interests might lie. He wonders if the fact that he's got a mage-guard – and that it's _Merlin_ – might be influencing his ambiguity.

Because they work at their own pace and because Arthur is less sure of his ambitions – and because he keeps watching Merlin and Freya make friends right in front of his eyes – Arthur is the last one done. He's aware that Nimueh discusses results with each of his new acquaintances privately before their departure, so he isn't surprised to be told to take the positioned seat beside the administrator's desk when he's through.

"Admirable results," Nimueh says, her eyes on her IDA, fingers actively flicking through some form of compiled or computed data. "Not unexpected for the son of Uther Pendragon, of course. But quite… general, comparatively."

"Is that bad?" Arthur says, a little defensively. Something about her manner makes him feel rebellious.

"No, not at all, quite the contrary." She sets the device down and twines her fingers together on the desktop, leaning toward him. "It means you can enter almost any field you desire, provided there are openings at the appropriate levels. But it also means, you have to choose. Your aptitude scores don't provide much emphasis at all, or tell us exactly what you're suited for. So, Arthur Pendragon. What do you want to be when you grow up?"

He found he resented the question, as if he were years younger and hadn't given his future much thought at all. "I'm not really interested in Production or Agriculture," he says. "Defense, Government, Technology. Maybe Research, maybe Medicine."

"That's still quite broad," she says. "How can we focus your concentration a bit more?"

"Well," he says, leaning forward a bit, himself. "There's Merlin."

Her eyes flick over his shoulder to the corridor window. "Your mage-guard."

"Yes. The thing is, I've had him for fifteen years, and he still looks about two years younger than me."

"Weak magic?" she suggests. But there's something in the squint of her eyes and the way she holds her mouth that makes Arthur suspect that she _knows_ , that she's heard some of the stories that have gone public over the years, accidents averted or attempts thwarted.

"No," he says. "The quantity gauge of the magic generator malfunctioned when he was created, but I think it's actually quite a lot. He uses it frequently and easily, even for new things, and ages at the same rate I do. Which means I can hope that he's with me for years – decades. And with his mage-made brain, intellectually he's more clever and capable than I am, a faster learner – though physically he's more clumsy and takes more practice to master gross motor skills."

"Fine motor?" she says.

"We're about even, there," Arthur tells her. "So it's been on my mind to seek a job where he can be of use also, more so than just following me and protecting me."

"You have specific ideas?" she says, her blue eyes narrowing.

"Well… Just a few things that have occurred to me, nothing I definitely _want_. For instance, if I was a pilot, he could be my copilot. If I was a surgeon, he could be a nursing assistant. If I was a judge, he could be my bailiff. That sort of thing."

"I see," she says; something about her tone makes him sure that she doesn't, quite. "Is this desire to expand his horizons and abilities something that comes from _him_ , or from you?"

"From me," Arthur says. "I mean, he wouldn't want a job that would take him away from me, his primary purpose and pleasure is assuring himself of my safety – but I think he'd be happier _doing_ something, rather than just sitting and watching. At school, at least he could listen and learn, and I'm sure he'd do the same with any job I was assigned, but… it does seem kind of a waste of intelligence and ability, for him to wait for something to happen to me."

"Uh huh," she says. Carefully. "And how often does… something happen to you?"

Merlin uses magic every day. Every hour, almost. But for the moments when Arthur's life is truly in danger, and not just accident-prevention – "Maybe once a month. Because of who my father is," he adds, feeling a little self-conscious. Hoping that Nimueh won't disqualify him from anything because of the possibility of bystander casualties. There haven't ever been any of those, anyway; she can check that.

She taps her thumbs together. One-two… three. One-two… three.

"Mr. Pendragon," she says. "I'm in research technology myself, in the field of magic. Freya is my test subject; I've had her thirteen years, and I requested the highest setting, so her age-rate is nearly that of a human's as well. I wonder if you might be interested in a junior position in my department – that way your mage might be utilized without causing the controversy that might arise were you to suggest his filling any other position, socially or commercially or so on."

That was what he'd been arguing with his father the other night, which Merlin overheard in part. Whether a mage should be limited to the task he was created for, if he was capable of more, and the common prejudice against that consideration.

"I might," Arthur allowed slowly. Test subject sounded… maybe interesting, maybe horrifying.

"Perhaps a trial period," Nimueh suggested. "It probably doesn't sound as glorious or exciting as a pilot or surgeon… Three months, say? Since your exams don't clearly delineate your career path? We could even delay a permanent move from your current quarters, and give you a temporary status here if that's more convenient."

Arthur sits back, and breathes, and thinks. It would give Merlin opportunities to be around Freya. And he might always wonder what _test subject_ means, if he doesn't find out personally – Freya seems happy enough, but… And maybe, in this field, he can explore the questions of magic and free will.

"All right," he says. "A three-month trial period."

"Starting Monday," Nimueh says, pleased. "You'll receive instructions on where to be and when, sometime this weekend."

He wishes he knew if he made the right choice. It feels right; he's pretty sure Merlin will approve, too. He stands up and offers to shake her hand. "Thank you very much."

"Oh, no," she tells him, standing and grasping his hand in return. "Thank _you_."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…... …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur loiters in a far obscure corner of the boardroom, behind the rows of stationary arm-chairs placed for the assistants of those people who'll be seated at the enormous egg-shaped table itself. He watches people enter – people in suits and in white technical jumpsuits, greeting each other and finding their places.

He wishes Merlin was with him. Though he got his wish when they started working for Research – Merlin is in a different department from him. As independent as he's ever going to get for a mage, probably.

Arthur himself works with mage-creation, these days, the same rooms where Merlin was made. Not to liaise with the public – whichever rich or powerful personage comes to choose and form their own mages – but as a technician himself. Calibrating and maintaining and checking and double-checking. As he works, he sometimes remembers and wonders about the mysterious malfunction that occurred during Merlin's creation, resulting in a mage that can use and use and use and still age at a rate so comparable to a human that there's no perceptible difference, after fifteen years. Which is maybe what they're studying in the department where Merlin is happy to supplement Freya's role as a test subject. To Arthur's knowledge, nothing like that ever happened, before or since.

When they started working here, Arthur resurrected an old worry, that he never shared with Merlin. What if what they asked of his mage-guard in the Testing department – more and more often than he was used to with Arthur – would start to age him more rapidly? use him up? But it's been almost two years now and hasn't happened yet. Merlin is still energetic and effervescently cheerful and probably quite a bit of that has to do with Freya.

He's seen them holding hands, sometimes when he's off early and goes to meet Merlin at Testing before they leave for the day, and evidently Nimueh hasn't objected. It prompts Arthur to send a message to Gwen, sometimes. Just to stay in contact with a friend, since they and Gwaine don't live in the same building anymore.

All around the room, people settle into chairs. Arthur now wishes he'd chosen one, even at the risk of taking and having to be evicted from someone else's. But there are a few others on their feet, in the corners, and no one's taking special notice of him… he figures he's all right. If he does something inappropriate out of ignorance, they'll forgive and correct him, won't they?

He has to focus on the fact that there's a reason he's here.

The one question he raised to his superiors down in the Formation department, that they hadn't been able to answer. One looked at him blankly – and his supervisor hemmed and hawed and blustered and excused. And Arthur posed the question to his father, who frowned at him… and two days later, Arthur was allowed to submit his question in writing to the supervisor of his supervisor's supervisor… who probably has a seat at the table, today.

Question being: What exactly is a Master Control Sequence?

 **MCS: Y/N?**

In setting the equipment of a Formation chamber for another mage's creation, it's a simple toggle switch. Arthur flipped the switch for months, learning procedure and then the reasons behind the procedure, before he even though to ask, _what's MCS_?

Master Control Sequence.

Okay… but what does that _mean_?

First he thought, control of the mage's master, but that doesn't make sense, to give a mage the option of controlling their master – and how? No, it's the facility's master control over any mage it chooses, at inception.

Which is puzzling, and alarming, that this board, or possibly an individual within the upper echelons, can supersede any chosen mage's… programming. But there _is_ no programming beyond the mage's intended use. Like Merlin is a mage-guard. It's ingrained as deeply as Arthur's blood for his veins, to _guard_. The rest is all, physical characteristics chosen by the owner, and the personality or intelligence or specific skill that develops or is taught over time.

Why would they want to be able to command certain of the mages scattered through society? If it's an old fail-safe dating back to the origins of the process, might they not simply delete that function? It seems to Arthur, it might be dangerous if someone can potentially find and command any mages with **MCS: Y** in their coding. Or if the privileged public discovers the possibility that their – or any – mage can be subverted without recourse…

Nimueh sweeps into the room, and the door materializes behind with a swish of air that's audible as all other sound ceases.

"Good morning. Thank you all for coming."

He's not sure of her title. Something like the current elected chairperson – a leader of equals. Which makes him wonder, sometimes. Why she'd proctored an aptitude test for academy graduates. He's sounded out both Percival and Lancelot on that mild curiosity in their sometimes contacts, but neither know nor particularly care.

"I'm very pleased to see such solid support," Nimueh goes on, laying her individual data assessor on the table in front of her.

Excitement almost crackles in the air around her, and the people in the room can sense it. Arthur is in the back, but what he sees and feels is eager attention, from most. Only a very few who are sternly neutral, noncommittal, or quietly tense.

"At very long last, we can put Step Two behind us, and definitively initiate Step Thee. Statistics, you have your report?"

"Yes, ma'am." A young man stands, halfway down the table on the opposite side. His hair is military-short, like Percival's, and he's one of the eagerly attentive. "We have eleven in Defense. Five each in Government and Technology, eight in Medicine, and two in key positions in Production. Nine in Agriculture."

A murmur runs around the room, and Arthur sees that people are impressed. He doesn't know what to think. How many of what?

"Thank you." Nimueh releases the young man, smiling, and turns to an older woman with gray strands in long black hair, and a gap between her front teeth. "Logistics?"  
Arthur understands even less of her report. Sometimes about reception of a signal – several signals? – and response time. This too, seems to impress the gathering. Arthur feels more out of place than ever – would Merlin understand if he was present? but there aren't any other gray-suited mages in the meeting – and wishes he could have gotten an agenda, or a briefing.

Then it's the turn of a thirty-something man, tall and lean with incongruously flowing red-blonde hair and droopy lips, dressed in combative black with heavy boots. He's from Operations, which Arthur has taken to mean the department that handles and oversees the other departments of Research. But dressed like that?

He begins, "We estimate for shock and disbelief, four hours. Realization, eighteen hours. Resistance, twenty-four to thirty-six hours. And acceptance, another twelve. In total, less than a week til full control."

"This is of course the best-case scenario." Nimueh plants her hands on the table and leans over them. She's wearing skin-tight bright blue that matches her eyes and contrasts with scarlet lipstick; she's magnetic and she knows it. "But of course, worst-case scenario still brings us success, and casualties are eighty-two percent limited to the mages themselves."

Arthur can't help it. He blurts out, "Casualties?"

The room goes cold-silent and everyone looks at him. His stomach cramps with uncertainty and embarrassment – but he's learned how to deal with that since he was very small. He lifts his chin – not with defiance, but with firm confidence.

Nimueh smiles. "Everyone, I'd like to introduce you to Arthur Pendragon. Come up here, Arthur, I'd like to address your concerns."

He looks away from her to make his way through the chairs without tripping over any legs – human or furniture – and manages to find a clear path between the wheeled armchairs at the table, and the stationary ones of lesser folks rimming the wall haphazardly one, two, or three deep.

Nimueh adds, addressing the room, "Of course you all know his father by name. Uther Pendragon, an eminent and long-standing member of the Government."

No one rustles or murmurs in surprise; Arthur is disconcerted to face the room and see no smiles. Of course no one in Government is ever thoroughly popular, but it's been peaceful under his father's faction for almost three decades.

"Arthur," Nimueh says, speaking not to him but to the people who control Research, "has voiced some doubts about the composition of our mages. Specifically he's concerned about the Master Control Sequence."

Some laugh outright. Others sneer. Most wear expressions of amusement and disbelief.

What is he missing? A chill stiffens his spine and he resists the urge to clench his fists.

"I suppose," Nimueh says dryly, "you're worried that someone could potentially signal the sequence activation, and issue orders to specific mages in specific departments and…"

"Try to take over the world," Arthur says numbly. It's absolutely _fantastic_ , but… it seems to be happening anyway. Those reports from Statistics – Logistics – _Operations_ …

Nimueh makes an impatient noise, as titters ripple through the rest of the room. "Not the world, Arthur. Just the City."

"For starters," the man from Operations says mildly – and the chuckles for his joke are warm.

"We did hope you would support our efforts," the older woman from Logistics says, and the sentiment seems genuine, at least from her.

Arthur swears inside his head, trying to think of what he should do. Get out of here, warn someone – but how can they find all the mages affected, and what do they do with them when they find them? If this gets out to the public, there could be riots. Lynchings. Mages aren't _real_ , and can be deleted as easily as made.

"There's no reason to be nervous, Arthur," Nimueh assures him, smiling unperturbed. "We want you with us."

She puts her hand on his sleeve and he flinches away before he can think, better to play along, to pretend til he can get clear and then run screaming to the authorities. And her blue eyes narrow.

"I can get back to you on that, right?" Arthur says, shifting and trying to figure his best path to the door, without being obvious about it. Unless the door is locked.

"We'll take a vote," Nimueh says smoothly. "But whether or not you're with us, you've still proven to be a valuable asset. We assessed a twenty-five-percent possibility that you'd notice the MCS, much less question it. We don't want to waste your potential – or at least, we don't want you to waste potential within your possession." She turns to the assembly. "I would like to introduce our demonstration at this time, for those of you who still have doubts."

She looks down at her IDA on the table, and tap-tap-swipes the screen. A moment later the meeting-room door dematerializes to reveal two young men in mage-gray, one behind the other. The one in front is Merlin, his hands empty, and he's smiling in shy self-consciousness as he steps inside the crowded room, visually seeking Arthur.

"Hello," he says to no one and everyone. "Sorry, they said I was needed…"

The door solidifies behind him, and it's probably locked. And Arthur thinks, _Master Control_ , and was Merlin's set to **Y** or **N**? his throat is tight; he can't swallow. Almost he takes a step back, but there's no room – nowhere for him to go.

Nimueh doesn't reply. Her fingers flick over the screen of her IDA – the sequence – then she says to the room, "Observe."

A nearly-inaudible noise erupts from the device, like the ringing in the ears that happens when a loud continuous noise abruptly ceases.

Merlin's smile loosens, and vanishes by slow degrees. His eyes are puzzled – then blank. His spine straightens, and his hands drop to his sides.

Arthur's voice sounds pinched when he says, "Merlin…"

His little brother doesn't respond.

Between them, Nimueh gives the awe-struck room a triumphant smile. And says, "Merlin, use your magic to break Arthur's legs. We want to keep him with us, after all."

Collective gasp of shock – but no one moves. Arthur feels sharply nauseated, maybe light-headed – Merlin turns to him and begins to lift his hand, as Arthur has seen him do thousands of times over the years. At his own command, in his own defense. Sometimes even risking himself personally to protect and defend Arthur.

He knows it's no good to duck or hide. Merlin's magic is both precise and thorough. Instead he springs for his friend, closer than the upraised arm, and curls his arms around the ribs, over the shoulder, slamming their bodies together so that Merlin's back thuds into the room's door behind him, bruising Arthur's fingers. He doesn't let go.

"Hugs," he whispers fiercely into Merlin's ear, the black hair tickling his mouth and nose.

Merlin twitches, doesn't drop his arm, and Arthur doesn't let go.

" _Hugs_. Merlin – don't listen to her. We're in danger, we've got to get out of here. Do you hear me? You need to get both of us through that door and out of this building, safely and immediately. Magic, Merlin. Your blood is mine, but your magic is _yours_."

Merlin shudders. His hand drops – Arthur half-expects sudden and vicious pain in either or both of his legs – and the door behind them disappears.

They stumble out to the corridor.

"Merlin!" Nimueh says sharply. Some of the people in the room still in view rise to their feet, startled by this unexpected turn of events. She taps on her IDA, and looks up expectantly.

Merlin gives a full-body shiver, and Arthur shoves him down the corridor.

"Run!" he says. "And close and jam that door, if you can!"

Merlin stumbles, trying to move forward and look back at once. Nimueh leaps through the doorway, and yelps as the door forms solid behind her. Usually doors will not materialize if something obstructs the doorway, but – Arthur shudders, and turns to sprint, hauling Merlin beside and behind him with a handful of mage-gray tunic sleeve. There are tears on Merlin's face, and he hasn't made a sound.

Behind them Nimueh is screaming, but not giving chase; she doesn't have to. There are eighteen members of building Security, and that includes four mages.

At the far end of the corridor, the destination they're pounding towards – and Arthur hopes to get Merlin out of sight or earshot, then he won't have to worry about Master Control – one of the mages appears.

Feminine gray, and shoulder-length chocolate-brown curls. Freya's mouth drops open in surprise.

Behind them, Nimueh screeches something that includes the word _kill_. Freya's eyes go blank and her palm begins to rise.

They're both already running full tilt, but somehow Merlin breezes past Arthur, never hesitating, and sweeps Freya into his arms, kissing her right on the mouth. He kisses her and _kisses_ her, slowing but not stopping, taking her right around the corner as Arthur gapes and follows.

Nimueh is still screaming. But not following.

Freya makes a startled noise against Merlin's mouth, and flails her hands behind his back. He releases her – eyes wide, mouth dropped open.

"Come with us," Merlin says. It sounds half-plea, half-order.

Freya jerks a nod.

"But how are we going to-" Arthur begins.

Then Merlin, one arm still half-around Freya, turns to him. He's never seen Merlin like this.

Merlin is pissed.

He reaches out and grabs Arthur's upper arm and his eyes blaze with such blindingly golden light that Arthur first squints, then closes his eyes.

A wall of air blasts him, buffets around him like he's standing in the middle of the hover-track. But he can feel Merlin's grip tight as a band around his arm, and he breathes and doesn't panic.

Whatever Merlin is doing – magic – to get them out of the building, Arthur thinks, _We need to go somewhere they don't expect, somewhere someone can help us_. The ground rocks a little beneath his feet, and he opens his eyes, blinking in a dim light, green-black reflecting tile. Around them are stainless-steel shelves, two feet wide and as long as the little room, and filled with stacks of trays and dishes. He recognizes it instantly for a childhood retreat – the dry storage of the kitchens in the building where he and Merlin grew up.

He says stupidly, " _Here_?"

Merlin and Freya are both in front of him, standing in the same positions as a moment ago, on the fourth floor of the Research headquarters. Freya is clinging to Merlin and swaying a bit. She's just left her master/owner; Arthur didn't think that was possible – but then, he didn't think it was possible to reverse a mage's purpose, either.

"They'll never think of Hunith," Merlin says.

It's an excellent idea. Arthur is surprised and grateful; he'd probably have to think through a dozen acquaintances and friends that Nimueh could probably track by his recent contact with them, that there will be records of.

He and Freya crowd into a far corner, out of sight of workers coming for most items, while Merlin slips out to find Hunith. Freya doesn't say anything to him, and he doesn't try to talk to her; Research was probably her whole life, with Nimueh. He thinks instead of how Hunith will be able to call up to his father and then – hopefully – they can stop Nimueh's plan to take control via re-programmed mages.

The door-seal sucks open, and Hunith looks surprised to see them, as though she didn't really believe Merlin; he slips back in behind her, glancing out to make sure they've gone unnoticed. She hugs Arthur, and smells like always, like onions. It seems to overwhelm her when he tries to tell her what's happening, but she hid and helped them when they snuck down for snacks, fifteen years ago, and she promises to help them now. She calls up to his father, returns to tell them his father isn't in.

"You could take the personnel transport up to your father's quarters and wait there," she suggests.

Merlin looks at Arthur, who says, "I don't want to risk it. They might not think to look for us down here, but surely our old quarters will be considered."

He thinks suddenly of Gilli, and whether his **MCS** read **Y** or **N**.

Gwaine at the were-dog training center calls Hunith, actually, to check on the truth or her belief in the rumor he's heard, that Arthur Pendragon is a wanted man as of that afternoon, for crimes committed by his mage Merlin. There isn't anyone else in any position of power or control or authority Arthur can call and get through to who will believe him, anymore.

Hunith brings them self-cleaning aprons so they blend in with the other works, and they wait almost an hour til a shift change, and she brings them to her private room in the sub-basement. It's early, so no one else hangs about the workers' apartments.

It's tiny, room for bed and nightstand and wall-hooks for changes of clothing. Communal bathroom down the hall. Arthur paces – three steps up and three back, while Merlin and Freya sit on the bedcover and hold hands. And outside in the world, is this _happening_.

"What she did," Merlin says suddenly into the troubled silence. "What she almost made me do…"

"Never mind, Merlin," Arthur says roughly. But he is sure he will have nightmares about that awful blankness in Merlin's eyes that for a single instant made Arthur _afraid_ _of_ him.

Merlin lifts his face to look at Arthur, and says in a near-whisper, "I've never felt this way in my life… I hate that I'm a mage."

He's pale, and shocked at himself. Tears roll down Freya's face, but she doesn't disagree.

Arthur stops and crouches in front of the two gray-clad mages, taking their shared hands between his. "I'm not," he says intensely. "I've rarely been more glad that you are who you are."

"Do you think any of the others," Merlin says, "can fight the activation sequence?" Freya nestles into his side.

Arthur says grimly, "I guess we'll see."

When Hunith returns at the end of the evening, she's trembling and trying to hide a very real, deep fear. Something has happened – a rash of deaths across the city. Murders, accidents… all across the city, men and women in positions of power.

"They're saying that mages did it," Hunith repeats, in shocked disbelief, even though Arthur has tried to explain, that's what they planned.

The chairperson of Research has taken the role of primary leadership for the city.

Uther Pendragon doesn't return home that night, nor the next.

They need a better place to hide, and a safe way to secure supplies, since Arthur will be arrested on sight and probably worse will happen to Merlin and Freya. But they can't just let Nimueh have the city, and change things to suit herself. And neither can they hide until she forget about them, or discounts them as a threat.

Arthur thinks carefully through his friends and contacts and decides upon half a dozen names he can trust, with the truth. And to help.

Shock and disbelief, four hours. Realization, eighteen hours. Resistance, twenty-four to thirty-six hours – or much longer, if Arthur can manage.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The derelict warehouse is a good fit for them. It's the best headquarters-hideout they've had in the last eight months. It's at the far edge of an area on the outskirts of the city that's been abandoned because of wild half-breed were-dogs – which aren't a problem for them anymore, thanks to Gwaine.

Gwaine is one of the few who keep their jobs and lives and identities in the wake of Nimueh's successful coup. Loyal to the regime change by day in his position as a were-handler, and coming to Arthur's group by night for things like, training the roaming feral menace of the neighborhood into the best security system they've had.

Thinking of Gwaine – Arthur looks up from his desk in a flexi-glass-walled office in the center-back of the warehouse's main floor to see that his friend has just come in. Gwaine's twin brothers must have been anticipating his arrival; freshly graduated, wild and daring and incorrigible, they are Arthur's go-to guys for missions involving stealth and acrobatics and nerve. Just last week they climbed the outside of the Government building to the fifth floor to pirate an interior signal and duplicate it for Resistance use. Gwaine hasn't come alone, though; he's not the only one the twins are dancing about and punching delightedly.

Arthur stands, then comes out from behind the desk to the doorway that once featured an old-fashioned hinged door – missing, door and hinges – to see that Gwaine has brought his youngest brother with him. Baby Mordred. Seems like yesterday he was spitting squash on his bib and trying to hit the spoon out of Gwaine's hand.

"He isn't," Arthur says loudly, sarcastically.

"He is," Gwaine answers back – and beneath the roguish grin, Arthur sees a weary sadness.

"Not eighteen already?" Arthur questions.

Time flies. And, they thought they'd be done with this - past the Resistance, successful in re-establishing self-rule to the city, freedoms Nimueh's hijacked mages took away that they haven't gotten back – before Mordred was old enough to join.

 _I want to come, too…_

Mordred grins shyly, hopefully. They promised, didn't they. Made him wait til his birthday.

"Yesterday," Mordred says, shrugging off Gwaine's arm and trying to keep his twin brothers rom ruffling shaggy hair. "I would've come then, but they got me drunk and I passed out."

Why is Arthur not surprised. He says to the twins, "Okay – go feed him to the were-dogs for now, and we'll discuss training tomorrow."

One of the twins whoops, and the other gives Mordred a shove toward the rear exit. They have trackers on the feral were-dogs, so locating them on their random patrols will be easy. Introducing his scent to the four-legged sentries means Mordred can come and go on his own from now on.

"Merlin back yet?" Gwaine asks, lingering.

As if Arthur wouldn't have said that, immediately. His neck muscles tighten distinctly, as he shakes his head. Gwaine has asked the same thing for nearly a month, now.

Gwaine curses the undercover job in more colorful terms than last week. For a while they worried that they'd know Merlin failed because Arthur's black-haired mage would lead the last charge against their hidden base – but now, the worry is far more bleak. Would they even know if Merlin suffered the ultimate failure? Deletion left no trace; they'd simply never see him again.

"I expect Lancelot tonight," Arthur says mildly, leaning on the inside of the office's doorway as Gwaine leans on the outside.

Lancelot, in Defense, contacted him through Percival. Whose involvement includes the passing of information only, as they don't have any use for a naval officer beyond sowing doubt in the military as to Nimueh's effectual leadership, without spreading prejudice about mages. Lancelot informed them – through Percival – that he had a decent chance at freeing a prisoner the Resistance as a whole and Arthur personally would find valuable.

He can't allow himself to hope, but he knows Gwaine knows what he's thinking.

"How's things otherwise?" Gwaine asks.

"Hunith's contact in Agriculture was promoted," Arthur says. "So we shouldn't have to worry about shortages for the refugees." The entire top floor of the warehouse was peopled with those who'd spoken too freely or helped too carelessly – and a handful of mages they'd managed to jam, and wipe. Take away Nimueh's resources and hopefully they'd become his – but none as trusted, yet or ever, as Merlin.

Gwaine grunts. "That's good."

A shout from the main – hidden – entrance draws their attention. It's Leon, the scout-guard who left his father's gym after an incident involving one of Nimueh's mages. Evidently foiling a coup-approved assassination is frowned upon by the new regime.

"Arthur!" Leon shouts, his voice echoing around the dimly-lit dura-crete and flexi-glass. "Lancelot's here! And-" figures come into view from behind him as he remains near his post. "Your father!"

He pushes upright; Gwaine does the same, and from the corner of his eye he sees Gwen in her slim-fitting jumpsuit come around the corner of the office – also focused on the new arrivals. There's folded fabric in her hands, but his attention is full of his father.

Uther is limping stiffly – but his shoulders are back and his head is up. He's thin, and a scraggly beard blurs his jawline, but Arthur's heart squeezes. _Father_.

He remembers just in time to put out his hand instead of anything more unreserved or demonstrative, though he hasn't seen Uther since before that disastrous day in Research, the day Nimueh took the City. But his father stuns him, brushing his hand aside to grip him in a hard embrace.

"Arthur," he says, and his voice breaks. He's trembling, and it shocks Arthur.

He reverts back to what he's accustomed to, in welcoming and reassuring refugees. "It's all right. You're safe now."

After a moment Uther withdraws, making a visible effort to compose himself. "It's been hell," he says. "You've no idea. I couldn't believe it when this young man showed up with orders to transport me – and then he said he was acting for you, to… free me."

"It's been a priority since… that day," Arthur tells him.

"Yes, but – I never expected _you_ to lead a resistance effort," Uther says.

Arthur isn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. He decides to take nothing his father says seriously til the older man has had a few hours – or days – to rest and process his freedom.

"Why don't you sit down," he says, gesturing to a padded bench with a crooked back and an arm missing, that sits outside the front windows of his office-room. "The night's still early, we can get you something to eat if you're hungry, and set up living quarters near mine."

He hasn't wanted to tempt fate by preparing in advance, anticipating Lancelot's success. As his father slumps onto the bench, Arthur turns to Lancelot, who's wearing a little smile. He knows he did well. But Arthur takes his hand, hugging it to his chest and encircling his friend's shoulders with his other arm.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "And _well_ done."

"Walk with me a minute, Gwaine," Lancelot says. He can't stay forever, of course, he's not ready to blow his regular life to join the Resistance physically. "We'll stage a reasonable excuse for Pendragon's escape and evasion. With luck, we'll divert attention from here – and me."

"Good luck," Arthur says.

Lancelot turns to leave, saying, "Hey, Gwen," as both hello and goodbye – and Arthur relaxes to turn to her, now, too.

She looks tired, and glances at Uther uncertainly, as if she anticipates _changes_. She's probably right, but they've all changed since their academy days when she last saw Uther.

"We've done it," she says to Arthur, stepping close with the folded cloth in her hand. "At least the part that matters. It won't grow or shrink – but it's better than body armor against weapons – fire, acid, whatever."

He reaches out to pinch a fold. It doesn't feel quite like Merlin's mage-suit, and it's dark-charcoal rather than silver-mist, but he believes her. "Expensive?" he asks. "Difficult, time-consuming?"

"Not really," she says, nearly cheerful to be able to say so. "And now that we know how, we can simplify the process."

"Good," he says, pleased. "Suits for the fighters first, then the children – then the rest. Then, we can talk about the black market."

Her dark eyes sparkle at him, and her body brushes his briefly as she leans close to tweak the collar of the tunic he's wearing. "The first suit is for you, Arthur."

Warmth floods him, and he grins back, not arguing. He'd lose, and if there's one thing he's learned in becoming a leader of the Resistance, it's not to start an argument he can't win. Plus, she's been looking at him differently than any other man here – maybe the way he looks at her instead of any other girl. And if it's slow to develop – well, then it will be more certain in the end.

"How soon do I get it?" he says, teasingly challenging.

"Freya says another day," Gwen tells him, and he sobers slightly at the mention of that name. Freya has been using her magic to assist in Gwen's replication and production of mage's-clothing-like material. Since they all decided, she wasn't to use it in any riskier pursuit. And especially not as back-up for Merlin's mission, like she wanted.

"How is she today?" he asks, angling his shoulder so it's a private conversation from his father, Lancelot, and Gwaine.

"Fine," Gwen says. Then qualifies, "Worried. I mean, I guess it takes a lot of worry to worry yourself _sick_ , but Hunith doesn't seem worried about her, so…"

A piercing whistle shrills out, and Arthur whirls to Leon's position, tensing as the others do also – but the alert isn't followed by another signal. Leon's out of sight down a short corridor to the door; they don't see him and they don't hear him, but that _whistle_ -

Then Leon comes into sight, beginning to cross the open floor of the warehouse, his arm slung around another man's shoulders. Behind them, the twins carry on their usual mad, noisy caper – and Mordred is under the arm of the new arrival Leon announced.

And Arthur thought he was glad and relieved to have his father delivered safely to them. That would be the highlight of the night – but _this_ , this is one of the best moments of Arthur's life.

Beside him, Gwen gives a glad little cry. "Oh, he's back!"

And spins to rush away. He knows where she's going; it's been a very long time since he was jealous of the juvenile attention she showed to another.

Because it's _Merlin_ , beneath Leon's arm and with his own slung about Mordred's neck. His feet are shoeless under the baggy trousers of a once-white jumpsuit, its sleeves knotted around his waist to reveal an also once-white undershirt. Head to toe, he looks like he's crawled through a drainage tunnel underground to escape. The undershirt is torn and bloodied, though his movements are free and easy to the point of being cocky. There's blood on the side of his face, too, but his teeth are gleaming with a grin that pure and irresistible _Merlin_ , as he gives his attention to all four of the young men around him.

Arthur can't help but wonder if Merlin hasn't noticed him yet.

He got his wish. All their lives they haven't been separated more than an hour or two, even the months they both worked in Research. And Merlin has been gone more than six weeks. He's different, Arthur feels it in his bones and empty-thudding heart, just to watch him cross the warehouse floor in filthy socks and dragging cuffs. He's independent. A solo undercover mission – and his return means he's triumphant.

For a moment Arthur can't breathe. All this time he felt like he's missing a limb, without Merlin. He kept turning his head or opening his mouth to speak, like his mage-guard is simply waiting out of sight behind him. And now to think, Merlin hasn't felt the same.

Arthur is frozen in place, arms hanging heavy and useless at his sides, as Merlin laughs sideways with Mordred, approaching them.

But Merlin doesn't even slow. Drainpipe-grimy skin and whatever clothes they kept him in, after his capture, he doesn't hesitate to crash into Arthur, almost exactly the way he did, that last day at the Research meeting. He grips Arthur almost too tight to breathe, and Arthur realizes he's trembling too, as much as Uther.

He swears like one of Percival's sailors, breathily into Arthur's ear, and adds, "I _missed_ you."

Maybe it's Arthur that's trembling. He waits for Merlin to pull back, and he doesn't, and Arthur doesn't, content to feel his friend's presence in this most convincing way.

"We thought," Arthur starts, and loses his words. "We were afraid that…"

Then Merlin retreats, enough to look Arthur in the face, but keep hold of his shoulders.

"If they turned you, they'd use you against us." Arthur manages to sound normal, like the leader of the Resistance should sound. "And they didn't. That was all we knew."

Of course _we_ means _I_ , and Merlin understands that.

"It took them awhile to believe the act," he says, grinning and shrugging, but Arthur winces at something dark that lurks behind the blue of Merlin's eyes. "That they captured and overpowered me. Then it was a lot of testing and restraints-"

Gwaine makes the noise Arthur feels in his chest, and grips Merlin's shoulder.

"Boring," Merlin dismisses lightly. "So it took me a lot longer than we thought, but I got it."

Arthur doesn't bother looking for an object, in Merlin's hands or pockets. Of course the key will be hidden, absorbed and enduring, in Merlin's mind and memory.

"The sequence to deactivate the Master Control?" Gwaine says. Arthur feels more than sees his father rise from the padded bench behind him.

"Permanently." Merlin's satisfaction is brilliant. "And, because the escape of a valuable prisoner – I assume that was you, sir?-"

Arthur wants some time to gauge his father's reaction to _this_ Merlin, but he can't spare the attention, at the moment. It'll come in the next few days, as well as Merlin's reaction to his father joining them. _Changes_ , like Gwen anticipates, but good ones, Arthur hopes.

"Threw everything into a bit of an uproar…" Merlin goes on. "I was able to set implosives before I got out."

Even the twins go quiet. Arthur feels his father's gaze, uncomprehending and trying to read him.

"That was," he says. "That had a-"

"Eleven percent chance of success, I know," Merlin says. His self-satisfaction settles a bit as everyone processes the significance of his news. "Three floors of Research ruined, and possibly the rest of the building, collapsing over the next thirty hours, approximately."

"And they'll never make another mage," Gwaine says.

If the technology is obliterated, the raw materials ruined. And none of the original developers or their progeny or apprentices are alive, anymore. Research's monopoly means no residual information anywhere else, either.

"Does that mean," Uther says in a gravelly voice, "that this generation of mages is the last, and then they'll be… extinct."

Merlin meets Arthur's eyes, and his are shining with unshed tears, but he's still smiling. No one else could have made that choice.

But then someone touches Arthur's elbow, and he shifts to allow for Gwen – and Freya, behind her. Merlin notices, of course – and the excitement is back. If he's missed Arthur, how much has he missed his lady? Especially since…

Merlin starts to smother Freya in a hug like Arthur received, but a shock ripples through him before he gets his arms fully around her, and his upper body springs back, enough for him to focus on Freya's midsection.

Six weeks ago, no one would have guessed. They don't have access to traditional medical facilities, after all. Now, even in the dim warehouse-at-night lighting, on Freya's slim frame, it's hard to miss.

Uther inhales sharply.

Merlin vibrates with shock, fingers spread but not quite touching the unmistakable bulge of Freya's lower belly.

"Yep!" she says, laughing and whisking away a tear. Gwen is clutching Arthur's arm and glowing with happy tears, herself.

Merlin is going to be a father. That's supposed to be impossible for mages. Maybe not anymore. And maybe extinction is not their future.

His mage-guard, his little brother, swears again – but quietly and reverently. Then again, with happiness increasing in leaps and bounds. He throws an incredulous grin in Arthur's direction before swooping on Freya, lifting her in his arms and spinning her around.

They have no hover-carriages, no comfortable quarters in high-rising buildings in the center of the City. No kitchens equipped to send them anything they like within seconds – no freedom to go anywhere and do anything on the fame and power of his name and his father's position. They have no guarantee that tomorrow will be easier or safer than today.

But watching Merlin spin his pregnant mage-wife, Gwen's arm in his, Uther and his friends surrounding and supporting, he couldn't possibly ask for more.

Maybe life isn't _fun_. But it's _better_.

 **A/N: And that's it for this little set of stories. I know there's a lot I implied but left out, but I have no intention right now of expanding on 'Arthur's Mage-Guard' any more. Instead we'll go to a totally different story, next chapter and the ones following…**


	5. The Druids' Prince

**A/N: For this November, while I'm doing an original story for NaNoWriMo, I'm going to be adding to this collection of short/unrelated stories…**

 **My muse seems to take anything I've never done before, as a personal challenge. And short stories seem perfect for taking chances on premises we'd never write into a full-length work. Like, Merlin as druid royalty/nobility. And second person pov – something I've never done. Hope I pulled it off…**

 **And now for something completely different!**

 **The Druids' Prince** _(which can also be known as, The Druid's Prince. Because the placement of the apostrophe is significant…)_

You should have known better. You tell yourself as you stumble through the trackless forest, disarmed and bound with your hands behind your back, so that the cords cut into your wrists at every misstep, and your feet ache and ache.

Really ought to have known better, than to be ambushed so easily and thoroughly.

Then again, Sir Hecter, who's in charge of your training and education, never once mentioned ambush by _magic_. You'd remember if he did. But Father would probably have him burned alive, if he did.

You wonder dully, stumbling again, what they're going to do to you when you get wherever they're taking you. They don't talk, none of them, and they don't maintain formation, drifting about the flanks and coming up on you suddenly if you try to slow or stop, or standing and waiting and watching you from shadowy hoods as you limp and struggle up to them, prodded by someone's hand. None of them are cruel, though. Not to jeer or knock you down because your balance is off for being tied.

Maybe this should be part of the training, when you get back to Camelot, how to fight one-handed or bound or blindfolded.

If you get back to Camelot.

You're glad you're not blindfolded, though, when you reach the clearing, and the tents come into view a moment later, a couple dozen of them.

They don't stop you looking, so you study the place with a scout's eye as more than one hand pushes you to the center of the clearing. So many points of vulnerability. Lines of drying laundry, kettles over small dry fires that show little smoke. Furs stretched to dry – women working with various materials – barrels of flour or salt-pork or fish or dried fruit. Children running – hastily corralled when the rest of the community catches sight of their returning fellows, and you.

You lift your chin, like Father tells you to. It gives you confidence as the people gather – men first, women filling in, a few children sneaking between their elders. But it gets harder to show confidence you don't feel when you start catching some of the whispers.

"Is that him?"

"… Pendragon…"

"… _Murderer_ …"

There's one man standing out from the crowd, and you focus on him, partly because he isn't glaring daggers. The druid has fine, light hair that seems to float about his lined face. Firm jaw, sad eyes. Hands tucked into his sleeves.

Your mouth is dry and you're panting – from the forced march, arms bound.

You deserve this-

No. It's their fault, they know the law and yet continue to break it, what do they expect but the consequences.

You're jerked to a stop and the whispers die down.

The druid glances at the others behind you, who've brought you here. "No one was hurt?" the druid says.

"They weren't expecting us," one replies from behind your left shoulder. You cover your startled jump and shift your gaze away from faces like you're bored.

"Did you kill them?" a woman asks suddenly from the crowd. "The knights? His guard? Did you kill them?"

You try not to betray your interest in the answer. All you know is that your men suddenly started dropping from their saddles around you, and two druids were catching you down from your horse before you could boot it into escape. And yanked you from the saddle before you could draw your sword.

"No," a different man says. "Sleeping, only. They'll awaken to find their prince gone and no tracks to follow."

Your heart sinks a little, at that. If he's right, then you can't expect a rescue-attack anytime soon.

"They'll know it was us," someone else from the crowd says suddenly, the fear obvious in his voice. "If we thought things were bad before, now Uther will-"

The fair-haired druid clears his throat, and silence falls again. His eyes are on you as he says conversationally, "Where's Emrys?"

For a disconcerted moment, you think the question is for you. And you have no idea how to answer such a strange query. Then people begin to shuffle aside, making way for a couple of newcomers, and you look away from the druid elder.

A boy and an older woman. Her face is lined also, strength and sadness, and she has a green scarf tied around her hair. She stops as part of the crowd, while the boy steps to the fair-haired druid's side.

He's thin and tall, like he's just come through a growth spurt. Maybe fourteen, a couple of years younger than you, wearing plain peasant clothing like all the rest – a rope for a belt around his white tunic, and a druid cloak fastened at his throat, but pushed behind his shoulders. His hands are empty, his boots clumsy. His hair dark, his eyes light and as for his expression… you find it hard to meet his eyes, for some reason.

That bothers you – in the middle of this whole unnerving ordeal – so you look at the older man, instead, who is still watching you.

"Who are you?" he says. "Tell us your name."

You lift your chin again, because it isn't in you to beg or pretend ignorance or deny. "I am Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot." You're relieved to the point of breaking out in a mild sweat, that your voice doesn't waver on the pronouncement.

Murmurs ran through the crowd. Of course they hate you; the feeling is mutual, but you're fighting hard not to fear them, now that the tables are turned.

"You led a raid, a fortnight ago," the leader goes on. "Against one of our camps, not far from Camelot."

It occurs to you suddenly, this might not be about ransom, at all. And in that case…

If you swallow, your throat might stick closed. Your heart is thundering in a chest that feels empty, and your stomach twists with an emotion you can't name, if you're to be a true Pendragon and a pride to your king and father.

"I did," you manage.

The boy's eyes are steady on you, but you ignore him, focusing on the elder, who looks even sadder.

A woman shoulders out from the crowd. "You bastard!" she spits. "My son was there. You murderers drowned him in the well. His spirit will never rest, thanks to you – he was only seven years old!"

The ground disappears from beneath your feet, and the edges of the world go fuzzy. You're afraid – you want to live, but you're helpless to affect your will among people who only fear you with an army at your back. And evidently the army won't be coming.

And you refuse to think about the children, and the well. It's a horror you've been steadfastly blocking off with mental refusals, with determination never to be unable to act or speak, again. Never lose control.

So you raise your voice. "This is my father's land, and you trespass here with your foul magic. You break the law, and then blame _us_ for the consequences you've _chosen_."

"My boy never chose-" the woman begins to shriek, lifting her fists to strike you – but one of the other men shoves her back gently.

The boy says, in a quiet voice that still somehow carries, "Magic isn't foul."

You snort.

He looks puzzled – he looks disappointed as if, in spite of everything, he expected more from you. Your breath catches at that; you've seen it so often on Father's face when he looks at you, and it hurts more than anything.

But you cannot show them that. Not anyone.

"That is your only defense?" the fair-haired druid says. "You were merely following orders? Are you not aware that many of us do not or cannot perform magic? Yet your raids kill everyone indiscriminately, even children too young for instruction."

It feels like your stomach is twisting your lungs. You never thought – you never considered-

No. It doesn't matter. There were orders – _they_ were in the wrong and you blameless. They're just trying to corrupt you like they do with everyone they come into contact with.

"Magic is evil. It needs to be stamped out of Camelot completely," you say.

"He's condemned himself out of his own mouth," someone behind you says. The black-haired boy shifts his attention suddenly to that person.

"What is the will of the community?" the fair-haired elder asks, looking around the circle of people.

There is a stir, but you cannot make out any verbal answers – and you're too proud to look around like he's doing, searching. You know there's no sympathy for you, here – and you wouldn't want it anyway.

"You have no right to put me on trial," you say aloud. "This is not a legal proceeding – you cannot carry out a sentence against me, I am the prince!"

Someone behind you growls. "Not our prince."

"If we are all in accord…" the elder says, with a last glance around – and you're suddenly desperate to know what the unspoken decision was. Suddenly terrified to know.

"Wait – no, you can't!" the boy says, startled out of staring at you.

"Emrys," the elder begins.

Oh – a name. The name of the boy – who is he? They paused your trial for him – but voted on the outcome without his input.

"Don't you know who he is," Emrys says, flinging out a hand at you. Almost you flinch, expecting magic – but it's just a gesture. "This is the once and future king of prophecy."

What, now? That's a title you haven't heard before, how can it be you?

"You're wrong," someone tells the boy immediately.

And this time, you look around the crowd when it begins to murmur and whisper. Some faces look shocked, some furious, some uneasy.

The fair-haired elder is shaking his head gently. "It can't be, you must be mistaken."

"Look again," the boy insists. "Don't you recognize him?"

"It won't be a Pendragon," someone else says, stating a certainty. It is a certainty, it seems, that everyone else can agree on but the boy.

He looks from person to person, around the circle – and again you feel reverberations of shock, recognizing his emotion. You've felt the same way, speaking out at a council meeting, offering a contrary opinion or an angle that hadn't been mentioned – and everyone looks at you like the druids are looking at this Emrys boy. With condescending tolerance for his name or position or rank, but not reconsidering the merit of his argument.

Is one of these men Emrys' father, wearing the same expression that yours does, when something like this happens. Embarrassed disgust and impatience.

"But –" the boy protests.

"Emrys, you are very young – and far more likely to be wrong than the convocation of elders, and the whole community," the fair-haired man says kindly. "The judgment is irrevocable."

The boy draws in breath like he's going to argue, but looks around at the faces again – looks at you – and doesn't. He takes half a step back toward the woman with the green scarf, and drops his eyes.

And it seems that his attitude of deference relieves the rest of the people gathered. Are they all so sure the boy is wrong as the handful of men who act like the leaders seem to think?

But you're distracted when one of them grabs your arm, down from the chainmail specially made for your size because you don't fill a man's armor yet. You're yanked through the clearing toward one of the tents, and forced through. You discover it's high enough to stand up in, with a single central support-post. There's a lantern on the ground, which appears swept clean of bracken, and in two moments your captor has untied your hands and rebound them in front of you, around the supporting pole.

You circle around to watch him duck out the door-flap – and lean over to see that there doesn't appear to be anyone in the immediate vicinity. The crowd is breaking up, people walking away to tend to chores and duties.

Deep breath. All right, you're not completely helpless, and now that you're alone-

You yank on the tent post experimentally – just a little, enough to test the give, not enough to bring anyone running at the shaking of the tent-canvas. But there's no sway whatsoever – you yank harder to make sure, but it's like a full-grown oak and doesn't move even a fraction of an inch.

Damn magic. You gulp a little and give up that idea.

Your wrists are tied with ordinary twine, and you see at once that the man tying it knew what he was doing. You don't think about that, instead you pick and pick at the knots and ends til your fingertips are as raw as your wrists, and nothing loosens. You bend and break and separate your nails on both hands trying to weaken the strands of the rope – but it's all like the slender tent post.

"That rope is enchanted," someone says mildly, from the direction of the tent-flap.

You jump like a startled hare because you didn't hear anyone enter, and usually you're better aware of your surroundings than that. A prince and a warrior has to be.

Here, you're allowed to be neither, so maybe that's it.

Your visitor is the boy Emrys. How long has he been standing there, watching you try to free yourself? And if their magic has made it impossible; you shudder to think of the foul force touching your skin, entering your skin through the breaks you've made in it – has he been laughing at you?

But he doesn't look like he was laughing. He's solemn, and maybe sad. You remember how the adults of the camp treated him – he was the only one to object to the sentence. Maybe you can use that – a prince has to be tactically clever, too.

"You're Arthur," he says, venturing closer. "My name is-"

"Emrys, I know," you say.

Then he smiles, and the light in his eyes shifts somehow to make it easy to keep looking at him. "My name is Merlin," he said. " _Emrys_ is more like a title."

A title, hm?

You say slowly, "So you're like… a lord? or a prince?"

He shrugs, starting to wander around you and the tent support pole, out of reach though maybe you could kick him down. Though why would you – he probably has magic, if he's a prince, and wouldn't just remain your cooperative hostage.

"They have these prophecies," he says. "Great things I'm supposed to do. And they want them done yesterday, but they won't actually let me _do_ anything, or listen to me because I'm too young."

He looks at you suddenly, up and down, like he's just remembering that you're a prince, too. And you don't want him to realize the similarities you already noticed, you don't want there to be any similarities, you want all magic-users to be alien and evil, you want them to look and act and sound alien and evil because that's what they are, they're not scared little children crying for their mothers or women trying to run away or empty-handed men trying to shield their families with their bodies. Father says so, and Father ought to know.

So you lift your chin, and focus on using him like a tool, or a weapon, since it seems the pole and the cord won't give you what you want.

"What are they going to do to me?" you demand. Because that's what he objected to – that's where he's already on your side.

He grimaces, beginning to circle you slowly again. "You've been found guilty of murder, and unrepentant. That means you pay for your crime with your life."

A shudder ripples through you. Those words aren't unfamiliar – you've heard Father say them before public executions. The shudder doesn't pass, however, but curls back the other direction, and you find yourself leaning against the pole, squeezing it in your hands and screwing your eyes shut tight, trying to keep breathing. Your extremities are going cold and numb.

You don't want to die. But no one will save you. No one can.

There's a warm hand on yours, and you blink stupid unmanly tears to look right into the boy's eyes – blue like the sky at twilight, the best part of the day. He's only a couple inches shorter than you are.

You blurt, "You have to get me out of here."

He nods almost absently, like that's a given, and withdraws to begin his slow pacing circle around you again. "I have an idea," he says, his eyes on the ground, "but I hope you won't like it."

But you have an ally, and hope is beginning to bring back warmth and strength. "I honestly don't care if I'm going to like it or not, if it works, I'm sure I'll like it better than…"

Execution. And maybe it'll be drowning, or stabbing – because that would be fair, if you're being punished for the deaths in the raid. And arguing perspective on right and wrong is pointless because you're in their power – right or wrong, they can kill you.

But maybe it would be burning at the stake. Which would be vindictive, but entirely possible.

He walks all the way around you once more, like his choice to help you is bothering him, and you keep your mouth shut so he won't change his mind. Then he brings his hand from his pocket.

Delicate golden chains spill from his fingers, and he opens them to show you two chunks of crystal attached to them. He looks at you expectantly, like he thinks you're going to guess his plan from that, and you roll your eyes before you can help it.

"Sorry, I don't know anything about magic," you say. And suddenly, something you'd be proud to boast in Camelot's citadel sounds ignorant and childish, here.

He reaches into his pocket again and pulls out a small knife. You can't help pulling back from him, uncertain – he's a stranger and a magic-user and what if he's using you like you're trying to use him? – but he doesn't seem to notice.

"We each put a little of our blood on a crystal," he says. "Then we wear the one with the other's blood on it, and it'll look to everyone else like we are each other."

"You'll look like me, and I'll look like you?" you say, to make sure.

He nods.

You add, "But I'm taller than you."

"It doesn't matter. Neither do our clothes. People will see me when they look at you. Even if anyone touches us, the deception will hold – only until the crystal's chain comes off."

You're not quite sure what's not to like. "And I just… walk out of your camp, and take the crystal off once I'm away? And you'll pretend to be me in the meanwhile." He doesn't really answer, only studies you, and you pull up your chin, resisting his evaluation. "That sounds like it'll work. Do you want to do this immediately, or wait for dark, or what?"

"Right now," he says. "They'll miss me before too long, and once I'm found here talking to you they won't let me come back. But you'll have to act like me, and say what you think I'd say."

"Yeah," you say, and bite your tongue on a sharper, _I'm not stupid_ comment.

"And…" He hesitates, then lifts his head to look you right in the eye – and now you can't look away. "You have to promise something else."

His eyes remain blue. No sign of magic performed, but it feels involuntary when you say, "What?"

Because, that's not commitment. Just a request for more information.

"You have to promise me, that you won't forget today. And tomorrow. What happens here, I mean."

He watches you realize what he means. Maybe he doesn't want you to _die_ , but he doesn't want to free someone who might come after his friends another time.

You make your face go blank. Because really – attacking an official patrol on Camelot's lands and abducting the crown prince, and threatening and planning your execution? There's no chance Father won't level this place, once you're safely home. You feel a surprising pang of sympathy, like you want to warn this boy to flee the camp after you're gone, but… He's magic, too. Their prince. Guilty already of the worst crime in the kingdom, deserving only death.

But he won't help you if you tell him any of that, so you don't. The earnest expression in his eyes chafes your spirit, but you can stand it for a chance at freedom.

"Don't forget me," the boy continues, with an intensity you can't quite deny. "And don't just… believe everything you're told, or just follow your orders. Listen to your heart, and your conscience, and never be afraid to change. Keep your mind open, and learn about magic if you can – even if it's only to learn how to defend yourself against it."

"Is that all," you say, trying not to be sarcastic, in case that offends him.

"Not by a long shot," he says, but shrugs again, turning the knife and pushing up his sleeve. "Mercy isn't weakness. A man's class shouldn't define him. Might doesn't make right, it makes responsibility."

Maybe he's repeating the bits of wisdom his teachers have drilled into him as the prince. But there again, it's almost exactly the opposite to what you've been taught – which isn't really surprising, coming from an enemy. Except… is _he_ still an enemy? Just because he has magic? When he's using it to help you and save your life?

He makes a very small cut on his forearm, which shows only a single welling droplet of blood, and when he rubs one of the crystals into it, it flares oddly and seems to absorb the smear of red liquid.

"There," he says, lifting and opening the chain to slip around your neck. He tucks the crystal down the laces of your shirt, hiding the chain with your collar. It feels warm against your skin. The touch of his fingers is uncomfortably intimate.

You look down at yourself, and can't see anything different. He pushes your sleeve up and touches your arm with the knife, and hesitates again.

"Go on," you say, suddenly impatient to leave this place.

He presses, and gives the knife a little yank, and the cut stings, but there's no more blood than his. He rolls the second crystal in your blood, then pulls your sleeve back down before dropping his crystal on its chain around his neck. The gold and stone disappear under the cloak material fastened around his neck.

Then he positions his hands around yours. You brace yourself for the shock and evil of a spell, but he doesn't say anything. His eyes glow gold, and the twine at your wrists _warms_ – before beginning to untie itself slowly, though you can't help wincing when it peels away from the raw patches you've made on your wrists, pulling uselessly for your own freedom.

In a moment it's done and you're free, and then he shoves his own arms past the tent pole on either side of it, the twine dangling over his wrists.

This time, he does use a spell, but it doesn't sound scary, or even wrong. A bit like a line of a ballad in a different language. And the twine crawls and knots itself around his wrists – and it's so odd to see someone doing this to themselves.

Wouldn't it make more sense if his magic wouldn't work that way, to harm himself? Maybe it's kind of like, a sword or a knife, rather than a living force with a mind and purposes of its own, carrying the user inevitably toward complete corruption. Maybe it answers to the user's will, and because this boy wants to help…

The thoughts are disconcerting. You want to dismiss them all – but you can't.

"Get ready," he says, as the twine completes the last knot and he tests it, twisting his hands. "I'm sure someone will have sensed what I just did. We'll have to hope no one notices the crystals missing, either…"

You feel a surge of irritation for his lack of thinking through preparations. But you step hurriedly back at the rustle of frantic movement at the door-flap of the tent.

"Emrys! What are you doing in here with the prisoner? You were told – step _back_ from him!"

You look at Merlin, with his hands tied around the tent pole. He doesn't exactly meet your eyes, but he doesn't cringe at the scolding, either. He raises his chin in rather an imperious manner and affects to ignore everyone – you and the fair-haired leader and a brown-haired soldier with a big dented nose and angry eyes.

Experimentally, you take a step away from Merlin, and then another, and the fair-haired leader goes to check the cords on Merlin's hands.

The anger softens from the other's eyes as he wraps a meaty hand around your upper arm. "Come, boy," he says gently. "You don't belong in here."

What should you say? What would Merlin say? Your safest bet is probably to say as little as possible.

Ducking to be pulled out the tent flap, you look back to try to catch Merlin's eye – to say thank you with a look, since you can't say it aloud. But as the fair-haired leader turns away from him in a huff, Merlin leans forward against the tent pole, bending his knees and beginning to slide toward sitting on the ground.

He hasn't changed his mind, you tell yourself, stumbling a bit because you're watching behind you, instead of where your feet are going. As long as you remain free, you know he hasn't changed his mind.

"Emrys!" the light-haired leader says, catching up with you – he seems more exasperated than angry, though. "You were told to keep your distance from him. I know it may be hard to accept, at your age, but when you get a little older, maybe you'll learn to interpret what your magic is telling you with more clarity and truth."

You frown without thinking about it, because – magic _speaks_ to them? Then it _is_ a form of sentience in itself, with goals and designs, to use people and discard them!

The elder misinterprets your frown; he sighs again. "A Pendragon will not be the prophesied king. You are young and it may be decades before the true king of Albion is even born. Uther will be gone by then – and Arthur of course."

You shiver, remembering that they think you're still captive in that tent, awaiting execution.

The brown-haired man adds confidently, "It can't be a Pendragon. They're bloodthirsty butchers, the lot of them. Ignorant, beastly-"

"Hey!" you blurt, before you can think better of it.

The fair-haired man quirks an eyebrow at you – but doesn't correct his fellow. And you wish to defend yourself and Father, even though it shouldn't matter what a camp full of treacherous magic-users thinks.

"I mean," you add lamely. "They think that… all magic-users are evil and… corrupted. When you say… they're _all_ … you sound like… Uther."

They look at you, and you can see they don't like the comparison. They look at each other – and you can see that they're considering it. Because they _do_ that, or because they think you're their prince… but not very many of Father's men consider your words just because it's _you_.

"There are some of us who are shunned for our choices," the fair-haired leader says softly – to the other man, not you. "For violence, and attack, and dark magic. Conversely, I suppose it is logical that some of _them_ might be… more tolerant of magic, and our ways. Perhaps there's just too much ignorance, since we don't mix freely anymore."

"Anymore?" you say, curious in spite of the fact that you've decided to say as little as possible.

"Some years before you were born," he says, with a sort of melancholy remembrance. "Before the prince was born. Magic was freely practiced in Camelot. One of Uther's closest friends and advisers was a priestess of the Isle."

You don't know what that means, but _magic_ , clearly enough.

And – _what_? If that's true – why would he lie, he thinks you're Emrys – that means Father changed his mind. The Ban, the Purge, wasn't just an answer to a sudden or growing threat. It was a _change_.

Why? What happened?

"But that's a story for another day," the fair-haired leader says, with a meaningful look at the other, brown-haired and flat-nosed. "Tonight, you're restricted to the camp. Don't try to get close to the prisoner again – it's for your own good, lad."

"No doubt he'd lie and try to twist your sympathies," the brown-haired man adds. "And stab you in the back the moment you turned it, if it was to his advantage."

You burn with the need to declare them wrong, but they're bringing you to one little tent in particular, with a cookfire and tripod with steaming pot over it. And the woman with the green scarf.

And anyway, they're not wrong. It's what Father would have you do – it's what you prepared yourself to do when Merlin stepped into the tent alone. Negotiate, manipulate, anything to win freedom. If the two druid men had entered the tent a minute earlier, the crystals unworn and neither of you bound, would you have snatched Merlin's knife and threatened him to get them to let you escape? Would you have leaped into action, killing all three before they could react?

 _But when you're captured by enemies and slated for execution_ , you argue with yourself. _That's war, isn't it?_

Isn't it? Because capturing you, in their eyes, isn't an act of war – they're not going to negotiate with Father at all, they're not keeping you hostage. For them, this is a question of justice, important enough to risk Father's retaliation.

"Hunith," the fair-haired man says.

The woman straightens, wiping her brow with the sleeve over her forearm. She looks at you and sighs. "Oh, Merlin. What did you do?"

"We caught him in the tent with the prisoner," the brown-haired man says, and she grimaces like she's not really surprised. "You'll have to keep him with you til tomorrow, you know. Just to make sure."

She nods, waving you closer. You obey reluctantly, not sure what _with you_ means.

The fair-haired druid turns to leave, but the younger druid man retreats only just beyond this little campsite, and seats himself on a stump, keeping you rather obviously in the corner of his eye. You're under guard, then. How are you supposed to-

The woman touches your shoulder, gathering you in. She's soft and warm and smells like the herbs used for cooking, and her arms are around you and your chin is over her shoulder.

She's _hugging_ you, and you can't help stiffening uncertainly.

"Oh, Merlin," she says again, in your ear, smoothing your hair down the back of your neck in a way that makes you want to relax. "Don't be angry with me. This is the way things are, you know that. Until you're a man by their standards, they'll overrule you when they think it's best."

You manage, "I understand."

Because you _do_ – it's exactly the way you're treated in Camelot. Until you come of age, until you prove yourself in the tournaments, until Father gives you the official crown as heir… you can't _make_ them listen to you.

"You understand, but you're not happy," she says sympathetically, releasing you enough to cup your face and kiss your forehead. And it's almost more shocking than the pronouncement of guilty of murder, and the death sentence.

She's _his_ mother, and she's treating _you_ like her son.

No woman has ever treated you like her son, and it's strange and warm and comforting, and you feel tears start to clog up your throat.

She smiles into your face. "I'm sure it'll all work out," she says. You can see she believes it – and it makes you start to believe it, too. It makes you _want_ to believe it. "Why don't you sit down for a while. Tell me why you think it's _him_."

There are no seats, but you slide down the trunk of a tree that's only two paces away – the brown-haired, flat-nosed guard gives you a sharp, attentive glance.

"I don't… really want to talk about it," you say. Because you can't, not without making her suspicious, you're not her son.

She seems to accept this calmly, and continues with her work over the cookpot, casually speaking to you about this person and that – you don't know who they are, but some of the stories make you smile before you know you're going to. She's easy to listen to, not tongue-tied or self-conscious or giggly like the servants, not dismissive or condescending like the ladies or knights' wives. She doesn't seem to mind your lack of response.

Children running past call greetings. Women give you smiles when they catch your eyes, and men nod in greetings that carry meaningful respect.

It occurs to you, once you've escaped, that you'll be interrogated on every little detail about the camp. You probably should be watching for weakness… but it makes you uncomfortable to think of these women and children – placid and peaceful and friendly, you can't _see_ their evil at all – suddenly terrified. Running and screaming, trying to hide, trying to protect – and dying.

You viciously shove memories of that other raid back into the darkness deep inside. It was your responsibility to control the men – to issue the order that would take prisoners rather than executing them immediately with whatever means were at hand. Cookfires and well-water… _No_.

Daylight is dimming, and you realize you've been listening to her about an hour. You note that the brown-haired druid is still watching you, so you decide it doesn't matter, it's not time lost that you should have spent escaping.

You like it when she smiles at you. You feel loved, like you belong, like you don't have to try to be better, faster stronger smarter, you only have to be you, and that's good enough. You wish so much for your own mother that tears threaten your eyes with their embarrassment again. Would she have been like Hunith? You want to store as much of this feeling and interaction as you can, to fuel your imagination of your own mother, against the time when you return to the reality of the citadel. Even if it's all stolen from the boy it belongs to.

And then everyone, it seems, decides that it's time for dinner at once, and you realize dusk has fallen.

"This is almost ready," Hunith says, glancing at you – then the brown-haired druid, who is close enough to overhear.

If you wait too much longer, it'll be too dark to see much of anything, or get very far – new moon tonight, you remember. You hadn't thought about _Emrys_ being watched, and wonder how long you might have if they discover you're missing as him.

You push yourself up from your crouch at the bottom of the tree, and stretch your legs a little. You can sprint, if no one is watching to wonder why Emrys is sprinting away from the camp.

One woman pauses in passing – and you recognize her as the one who lost her little boy in your raid.

That damn raid. If you hadn't frozen in horror at what Father's knights started to do so carelessly… But no. It wasn't really their fault, was it? Just following orders. Like you were. But they can't disobey orders and get away with it like you can. They can't issue new orders, like you're supposed to be able to do, when you're the senior authority.

"They let me see him," she says to Hunith, who looks up from gathering her serving dishes. "He said… he was sorry for my loss."

Hunith makes a sympathetic noise, but the brown-haired man grunts, and they both turn to him.

"Probably saying whatever he thinks might get him out of trouble."

You realize the woman has visited Merlin, bound in the tent, to hurl accusations or demand explanation. And his response was apology and compassion, in your place – and he can't think that would actually be a response you would make. Crown Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot.

Are they going to feed him tonight? You refuse to think about it. Once you're gone he can drop the enchantment.

"Maybe," the woman says, frowning and turning back to Hunith.

Hunith says gently, "He's just a boy. He had no mother, and Uther Pendragon for a father."

You bite your tongue on a defensive retort, and it tastes sour in the back of your throat. _Who needs a mother. He's the best father in the kingdom, the most powerful and important_ …

"You mean, then it isn't his fault?" the woman says tartly. The brown-haired druid snorts again.

"No, that's not what I meant," Hunith says. She circles the fire toward her friend – and as she passes you, she unexpectedly puts out her hand to smooth your hair down the side of your head, and cup your jaw for a moment, with a smile in her eyes that's sweet and deep and just for you.

Everyone needs a mother. Your heart breaks with longing and guilt, for pretending to be her son. For _wanting_ to pretend to be the son of a druid woman, which is a betrayal of Father.

"I just mean," Hunith adds, wrapping an arm around the woman. "He's young. Young boys do what they're told, when maybe they shouldn't. And disobey when maybe they shouldn't. They make mistakes."

"The sentence won't be lifted," the brown-haired druid warns them.

The childless mother looks at him. And Hunith says, with a little squeeze of her shoulders, "But you can forgive."

The woman shakes her head slowly, for a moment. Then says softly, "Good night, Hunith," and slips out from under her arm.

"You can forgive," the man mimics, his voice sounding nasal because of his flattened nose. "And just let them keep on killing us?"

Hunith shakes her head at him. "If that's what you think, you don't understand forgiveness. Do you think she'll be any happier rejoicing in another boy's death? Holding on to her hate for his father, and the bitterness of loss?"

The brown-haired man humphs, and crosses his arms over his chest.

You want to run away, swiftly and immediately. Because you're in an enemy camp, but it doesn't feel like it, they're not treating you like an enemy but like a welcome member – and it's hard to remember why these people are your enemies. You've seen no open magic – maybe a suspicion out of the corner of your eye, easily explained away when you turn your head.

This is just a village. These are just people. You can't see any proof that magic corrupts them, save for the few who are angry or bitter. But loss does that to a person, you realize.

Thinking of Father.

Magic or no magic, loss and hate are what twist a person to unhappiness and bitterness, violence and vengeance. And Hunith at least seems to think it's a choice, to cling to unhappiness and bitterness, instead of letting it go…

"I hope you're hungry," she says to you, bending to bring ladle to bowl, and steam rises aromatic.

Your stomach turns unpleasantly.

"I need to take a minute," you tell her, and she gives you a fondly permissive smile.

You stumble over a root as you head hurriedly behind the tent, putting it between you and the brown-haired druid evidently assigned to watch you.

But he follows.

Past another scattering of tents and cookfires and families, past the fringes of the campsite, out toward undisturbed forest. He doesn't say anything, but he keeps up – and you can't exactly break into a run and lose him, even as Emrys.

You hadn't realized they wouldn't let him leave, either. Did Merlin think about that?

"Do you mind?" you say, gesturing like the man should have more manners. "A little privacy, here?" If you can creep away and hide, he might leave to find others to search for you, and then you can run.

"I'll turn my back," he says. But then he steps past you to do so, facing outward where you wanted to hide and run, so you're still trapped between him and the camp.

Impatiently you prepare to relieve yourself, looking about for some branch thick and sturdy enough to knock him out with. "Why are you following me, anyway?"

He huffs a sour chuckle. "You were told to stay away from the prisoner, and you didn't listen."

"The tent where you're holding him is in the opposite direction," you point out sarcastically.

He's been _listening_ ; as you readjust your clothing, he turns – no chance to grab a branch. "Why do you think he's worth saving?"

You stand there a moment, mouth gaping. You want to burst into a temper-fueled tirade – but you have to sound like Emrys. "You… you wouldn't understand," you mumble.

The man sighs, and a heavy hand descends on your shoulder, turning and forcing you in a gentle way back toward camp.

Maybe you can go in the night when most of the people are asleep. It'll be slow, in the dark, but maybe you'll have more time to get further away, before Emrys' absence is noticed.

Still, your feet return to the camp unwillingly. Your feelings – you can't help it – are confused. It's far easier to be the prince when people look at you, expecting princely behavior from you. But when no one knows it's you, you're tempted to relax and enjoy being with simple people showing simple kindness… though you're stealing that from Merlin, too. The smiles and greetings, even though he's not a prince like you're a prince, are spontaneous gift, not recollected due.

"You are too soft-hearted," the brown-haired druid says. "Perhaps that comes of being raised by your mother alone."

Where is Merlin's father? You can't think of a way to ask, if you're already supposed to know.

"As time and experience make you a man, you will learn that sometimes the hard choice is the right choice. And sometimes justice turns your stomach. But to beg mercy for an enemy that doesn't understand mercy…" The man met his eyes and shook his head, almost sadly.

Mercy is a… weakness. Magic is evil.

Father says so.

As Hunith presses you down to sitting, bowl in your hands, you curse them all for the way they've affected you in this short time. If it isn't bewitchment… Smoke stings your eyes, and you rub them roughly with your sleeve, drawing your knees up to your chest. Warmth seeps through the bowl into your fingers.

The earnest motherly voice soothes your ears and your heart with loving sympathy and understanding. "What bothers you, my son?"

You keep your eyes closed, and think of the portrait-painting you saw once when you were small, but you memorized. Those eyes – that smile. What you look for when you look in the mirror.

"I don't know what to think," you say. "I don't like to be told that I'm wrong, because – what if I am? I would have to change my thinking – but to what? Whose teaching do I follow when everyone says something different? And what if I was right in the beginning, but I'm influenced to change to something that is wrong?"

Somehow you feel, a mother will tell the truth. A father may try to teach and train – but a mother will _answer_. And that feels purer, in the moment.

Though maybe, you shouldn't be allowing the doubt at all.

"Children are meant to listen to their parents," she says, like she's listening and contemplating the same questions, and sharing her thoughts. "They're meant to follow, and obey. But you, my sweet son… unfortunately you aren't a child anymore, to accept what you're told without question. So I will tell you what I think, and you will have to weigh in your own mind, if what I tell you has value and truth."

That sounds honest and fair.

"When you listen to someone telling you, what is right and what is wrong, think of what you know of that man. Has he earned your respect of his character. Do others respect him – not for favors he might grant, or fear he inspires. How does he treat those around him – not only his equals, but those who are younger and weaker. With patience and kindness and protection? Have his words proven wise in the past, have they accomplished good for his fellows, or does he only seek to hurt or tear down?"

Suddenly it doesn't matter that a druid woman is speaking. Or that she thinks she's addressing a different boy. She counseled the other woman to forgive the loss of her son – for her own sake, not for those responsible.

Her son said the same thing. _Listen to your heart, and don't be afraid to change. Learn about magic, if only to be able to defend against it._

Gaius says that too, sometimes, in a sideways manner. _Educate yourself before you form an opinion. Test the opinion before you form the judgment._

The druid leader seems hard, but fair. The people smile at him as he passes. Contrasted to the other, who is vindictive and very sure of himself – and those around him don't seek to catch his eye for a greeting.

The woman whose son died seemed uncertain, after the apology from Merlin who looked like the Pendragon prince.

And what of Father?

You shy from the question. More and more you're sensitive to the fact that the servants avoid him, that the knights don't tease and joke with him the way the squires have done with you. That councilmen look at each other out of the corners of their eyes, speak when they're called upon, and never argue or initiate. Maybe that's why you do; it seems like someone needs to.

 _He's the best father in the kingdom, the most powerful and important…_

Who are the men who are respected – but also kind and patient. Who have encouraged you, whose warnings have come true?

Gaius heads the list. Then Geoffrey, maybe. You're not sure you know very many others well enough to say – more that _don't_ belong on the list. Lots, actually, and what does that say about Camelot?

"What about parents, or other blood relatives?" you say – and open your eyes to make sure she's still there, and hasn't gotten up to walk away.

It's surprisingly dark, already. Your bowl is cool in your hands, and the eyes of the druid with the flat nose glitter with the reflected firelight.

Hunith is right where you saw her last, her dish empty, keeping you company while you think. Ready to answer, but letting you struggle to conclusions on your own.

Not like your parent, who hands you the conclusion and disallows the question.

"That is where the difficulties lie," Hunith sighs. "Blood relations, or where your heart has bound itself. You very much want to respect that person, and please them with your agreement, follow their footsteps and join their path, so there may be no discord. But that, is when objectivity is the most important consideration. Right and wrong don't change with feelings of love or hate."

Or they shouldn't.

"Why don't you eat," she adds, smiling because it's a little amusing that you've forgotten, but it's a nice smile because she understands _why_ , and approves of delaying dinner for an important conversation.

But you are hungry, having skipped the noon meal, because you were ambushed – and there's no telling when you'll eat tomorrow. You scarf down the cool bowl of watery stew – little chopped bits with a lot of broth between them; no wonder her son is skinny – using forest-patrol manners rather than dining-room manners.

Licking the last dribbles from the edge of the tilted bowl, you think to offer, "I'll wash up?"

Maybe you can find some way of slipping free of the chore and making good your escape, before full dark.

"I'll wash up," Hunith corrects, reaching to take your bowl. She glances up as the brown-haired druid – looking bigger and meaner in the waning twilight – looms over you.

He says to her apologetically, "Can't guard him all night. Orders are orders."

She begins to protest, "Oh, but-"

You begin to push yourself to your feet – but the druid shows you his open palm. Behind which his eyes flare with that eerie gold glow of magic.

The world dissolves around the edges of your vision, and your body goes both numb and heavy. For a moment you resist, terrified – and then it seems contentment is to be found in surrender, and you close your eyes.

 **Tbc…**


	6. DP 2

**The Druids' Prince** , pt. 2

When you finally manage to open your eyes again, there is enough light to see the white canvas of a tent above you. It's a small tent and you're alone – but outside you can hear the sounds of the camp.

Not sleeping. Not anymore.

It's _morning_?

You bolt up from a dark, scratchy blanket someone has lain over you, and scramble out the open door-flap. Hunith is knelt by the fire again, cooking flat cakes on a scrubbed stone, and it's not dawn yet, but it's close.

"Morning," she says to you – not cheerfully, but like her thoughts trouble her. "Here, have these two that are ready, you need to eat before-"

Still staring around, you notice your brown-haired, flat-nosed guard at a short distance, watching you.

You stalk over to him, wanting very much to throw the first punch. "What did you do to me?" you demand, even as the answer presents itself, logically. "You put me in an enchanted sleep? All night?"

The man frowns at you – and too late, you realize you're still meant to be masked as Emrys by the crystal. "Calm yourself," he says. "If you'd been obedient yesterday, there wouldn't be consequences today. Hunith, there's no time for that – dawn is upon us. Let's go."

Dawn. The time of your scheduled execution.

For a second you freeze, as his hand descends on your shoulder, and Hunith pushes upright. They've caught you.

No, they haven't caught you. Not yet. But they will soon, if they bring Merlin-as-the-Pendragon out, and he sees that you haven't taken the chance to escape that he gave you.

"Do I have to go," you say, and your mouth is dry and your lips are stiff and your stomach rolls uncomfortably.

Hunith looks at the druid man unhappily.

He shrugs at her. "Orders."

"Are you supposed to follow orders if they're wrong," you say savagely. "Are you supposed to disobey, if what you're told is wrong."

"It's your duty, Emrys," the man says. "You can't disobey your duty."

You think about turning and running. But you know he could stop you with magic. You could fight and struggle, but you can't escape, and… you don't want to die, but you don't want to embarrass yourself and discredit your upbringing, as flawed as these people consider it.

 _Don't forget_ , Merlin told you. It's a fair bet that none of these people will forget your death. You want to show them a prince's courage. You also feel like warning them again, what your father will do, afterward.

Hunith walks a little behind you, and it should feel supportive, but it only makes you feel trapped. A few more moments, and they'll all know what Merlin tried – and that you failed. Hunith will know you tricked her.

Your eyes are on the ground as you drag your feet into the clearing at the center of the druid's camp, so you don't see him right away, you see the trouser legs and skirts of the gathered community. You see them parting to let you pass, and there are sympathetic murmurs that make your steps even more reluctant.

And then there's a break in the crowd – you think once again, Emrys has been brought in last to the gathering, though you're him, and they don't know – and you look up.

Your mouth drops open.

Merlin is balanced on the end of a narrow half-log, split for someone's cookfire, maybe. His hands are bound behind his back, and the fair-haired leader is fitting a noose over his head, down around his neck. Merlin looks up at the tree branch above him, where the rope is looped once before passing into the bracing hands of a muscular black-haired druid near the trunk of the tree.

When he drops his chin, he looks around at all the eyes watching him – his friends, his people – and then meets yours.

He's white as a sheet, and you can see his thin chest moving with controlled but quickened breathing. His cloak has been left behind, and you can see the glittering line of his crystal-necklace just under the loosened collar of his shirt, because you know it's there to see.

Merlin looks at you, and out of everyone, he can _see_ who you are – and he says nothing.

Your heart is pounding. What's going on.

He doesn't look surprised to see you, like he knew all along that they weren't going to let their prince have a chance to run away.

What are you supposed to do now? It's his secret to tell, his confession to make, how he tried to trick them and it failed, and _there_ is the condemned, hiding among them – but he says nothing.

"Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot," the fair-haired druid says, his words pulling the attention of the circle of people. He glances around – meets your eyes-

He's talking to _you_. He _knows_.

No, he doesn't. His eyes shift over your shoulder, and someone – Hunith – steps next to you for you to lean on her, with her arm around your shoulders.

Merlin watches her do it, and his eyes are desolate and his mouth turns down.

And he says nothing.

"You have been judged by a druid tribunal and found guilty in the matter of eighteen murders of our brethren," the leader says, looking up at Merlin. "You have been sentenced to death, and it is by hanging that the judgment will be rendered upon your body. Do you have anything to say to unburden your soul, before it is weighed by the gods?"

"Yes," Merlin says clearly. And pauses to look around the crowd, breathing in that fast-controlled way.

His eyes stop on you, and your heart is thundering like a charge of war-horses, fate and death bearing down on you and you can't move, you can't run to get away.

"I had all night to think of what I wanted to say… to all of you. My…" Merlin swallows, and it's emphasized by the movement of the rope at his neck – "last words."

The clearing is absolutely silent. You can't breathe.

"I want to say, I'm sorry for the losses you've endured. I'm sorry that life is hard, and that men hurt each other in misunderstanding. But… I hope that can end here, today. The mistakes of my people, the mistakes of the king – the murders, the hatred, the bitterness – let _me_ bear them all. And let it end. Let tomorrow be different."

He takes a breath as if to steady his voice – then closes his mouth abruptly and nods, as if he's come to the end of his words before he's ready. He lifts his chin.

You hear sniffling sounds from various places around the circle.

Your eyes are stinging. This can't be happening. He can't honestly expect to go through with this, to give his life for an enemy – and then expect them to let you go, afterward.

Maybe they will, though. Maybe if the deal is a life for a life, and they realize that an innocent person willingly took the place of the guilty…

You know you can't match that speech. But maybe if you repeat the truth of it – you don't feel like the same person who stood here yesterday and called them evil – maybe, like Hunith had told her friend… they could forgive.

It still stuns you a little, that your mind has been changed enough to admit, you need to be forgiven.

"That was well spoken, young prince," the fair-haired druid says. Merlin looks down at him; even standing on the log, he's not much taller than the man. "Your death pays for your crimes, and may your spirit travel to paradise guiltless and at peace."

A murmur of agreement passes through the crowd. Hunith's hand grips your shoulder; you're aware that she's weeping soundlessly and without embarrassment. Would she still feel so, if she _knew_?

Merlin's eyes meet yours. You're sick to your stomach and he's clearly terrified, but he gives you a firm nod of commitment.

 _All ye gods and angels…_

The black-bearded druid puts his weight on the rope, and it rubs on the tree-limb. Merlin has to rise on his toes – eyes wide and focused above the crowd, nostrils flared – and the fair-haired leader gives the log a firm and merciful kick.

Merlin's body jerks, and twitches. No air passes through his throat; he can't make a sound. Maybe he's trying _not_ to kick and twist, but behind his back, his fingers writhe at the binding cords.

Maybe he'll go to paradise guiltless and at peace, but you surely won't. No one will forgive you _this_ , not ever, and that includes yourself.

"No," you say aloud. People look at you like they're glad for an excuse not to watch the prisoner dying in front of their eyes.

 _Dying_.

"No!" you repeat. It's suddenly urgent that you stop this, stop them making such a horrific mistake, killing an innocent person, their beloved prince that they don't recognize.

But you only get one step, before you've got a pair of arms around your chest. Not Hunith's, some strong adult male – maybe your flat-nosed guard. The fair-haired leader is hurrying toward you, as if to calm or reassure before you can – before you can – what?

Hunith moves up beside you, watching you and not the hanging prisoner, and the love and pity is so clear in her face that you can't bear any more of it. You can't take it, you can't steal any more of that.

"Stop!" you gasp. "Stop – someone stop it! That's Merlin, not me!"

There's confusion, but no one moves forward. Merlin's body swings, and the sharp little movements of foot and shoulder seem involuntary now – his eyes sink half-closed.

" _That's_ your prince!" you scream, bending double and trying to pull away from the man holding you back. "Someone save him – someone stop him! I'm Arthur! I'm Arthur Pendragon!"

Still, everyone remains frozen in place. It's a nightmare, and it's real.

You claw at the arms holding you – all attempts to break free only have the strong druid lifting you helplessly off the ground. Kicking doesn't seem to be helping, but the grip on you loosens enough for your fingertips to reach the chain around your neck. You tear at it, pulling the crystal out of your shirt and ducking to scrape the chain over your neck and ears - catching and ripping out hairs from the back of your head - and flinging it down.

The man holding you releases you with an oath, and you stagger the few steps to Merlin, hugging him around the knees and trying to lift his weight up, off the choking noose.

"Merlin!" You think that's Hunith's voice, and wonder if someone is holding her back as well.

"Let him down!" you scream. "Cut him down!"

Bodies cluster more closely around you, and suddenly Merlin's weight drops. Away from you, as it chances, and because you don't let go, you both flop to the ground.

Someone's fingers are scrabbling at the piece of rope around his neck. His eyes are still closed, his chest far too still, the rest of him absolutely limp.

You crawl your way up his body. "Merlin! Merlin!"

There's no response.

The rope pulls free, leaving a raw-looking red-purple weal where it tightened against the pale skin of his slender neck, but he's insensible to it. You snatch for his crystal-chain, as if its removal can help – maybe it can, why not? You toss it away; it lands near the other by chance.

The gasp and murmur of the crowd increases. Someone exclaims, "Where the hell did he get those?"

"Merlin!" you say again, shaking him by his thin shoulders.

You can hear Hunith's voice above everyone else's, but not her words. Then the fair-haired druid is kneeling on Merlin's other side, stretching his hand over Merlin's chest.

"Hands off, please," he says to you, shortly and dispassionately.

You jerk back immediately, and his eyes flare with an intense gold that tightens the tendons of his hand.

Merlin's body inhales, deeply and roughly, like a boulder dragged across cobblestones. His eyes fly open, confused and unseeing and bloodshot, and as the druid leader retreats slightly, you throw yourself forward again. You realize distantly that you're so damn _grateful_ for magic – and no one stops you.

"I'm sorry," you babble. "I'm sorry. It was my fault, not yours, you shouldn't-"

He coughs, dry and short, and hauls in another rock-over-stone breath. Blinking, he rolls toward you – off his bound hands at the small of his back – and recognizes you.

"Arthur," he rasps, and coughs again. "What did you do?"

The druid leader releases Merlin's hands, and he brings one up to brace against the ground by his face. You withdraw, crouching over your knees to keep closer to him, still scared at the harsh proximity of death. Almost a repetition of what happened in another druid camp to another druid boy.

Men will die for you, Father has told you before. You honor their sacrifice, but you don't mourn them personally. You can't, not when it's your orders they die to fulfill, your self they die to protect.

But this isn't battle, and Merlin isn't your men, and he wasn't ordered, he volunteered.

And, he didn't die.

"Emrys," says the fair-haired druid, in a way that stills the crowd and catches his attention and yours.

In looking at him, you see that Hunith has knelt in the crook of Merlin's knees, one hand on the side of his thigh and one on his ribs for comfort – his, hers, or both – and silent tears are trickling down her face. But when she looks from her son to you, her expression of deep sympathetic sorrow doesn't change.

"What is the meaning of this?" the druid leader continues, firmly but gently. He holds up Merlin's dangling crystal, and a piece of the noose.

Merlin grabs at you, twisting on the ground, and you give him your hand and some support behind his elbow, to get him upward toward sitting.

"I told you," he rasps.

Hunith turns immediately to someone in the encircling crowd. "Get him some water!" she commands.

Merlin's attention doesn't falter. "I told you," he repeats, and the sound of his voice is as raw as the rope-mark on his neck; it makes you cringe, and not only you. "He is the once and future king. You've told me, over and over, it's my destiny to protect my king, at all costs, and advise him the very best I know how. So I tried… but you wouldn't let me. You wouldn't listen. I didn't know what else to do."

"You were going to let them kill you," you blurt. "Even yesterday, you knew what they'd do – why didn't you tell me?"

He looks at you, tears shining in dark eyes, and face pale; he can't have gotten much sleep, and the panicked energy of the almost-hanging is draining away. "Would it have made a difference?" he says tiredly.

You struggle with that – with being honest in front of strangers and enemies that don't think much of you anyway. But you owe him.

"It should have," you admit in a low voice.

His eyes close and as the tears drop, his fingers tighten around yours.

"I'm very sorry," you add.

For his neck, his wrists, his sleepless night, the weight of the judgment of his people. Facing his death so young, and not even sure that it will mean anything to you. Not sure if you will remember… or change.

And then you realize, how easy that was to say. It makes you feel a little bit lighter, a little bit more free, a little less guilty – and you look at the druid leader. "I'm sorry," you say again, and it's true.

It's not just, for how you almost got their prince killed. It's for the raid you led, and the ones before it that you didn't. For what Father did every time he wouldn't change his mind when he was wrong – he rarely changes his mind and for the first time you think, nobody is right all the time, and that includes the king.

You look up at all the people, still shocked and watching. The black-bearded man and the flat-nosed man and the woman who doesn't have a son anymore – she's crying because Hunith was her friend; she must know how another mother feels, to have come so close to the same loss.

"I'm sorry," you say again. "That raid – I told my men to spare the women and children, but… some of them ignored the order, and I… froze. I wanted to stop it, but didn't know what to do if they wouldn't listen. I…" you falter, and have to swallow, and try to firm your voice. "Dream about it, and… I hear the screams."

For a minute, everything goes blurry, until you blink.

"I can't change that day," you tell them. "But from now on, I will do whatever I can, to prevent it happening again. And when I'm king… when I'm king…" You can't breathe properly, and you have no idea how Merlin could give a coherent speech when he was about to die. No one's even threatening you, right now. "I am _truly_ sorry, for what happened."

Silence. You don't dare look at anyone, only Merlin. And he holds your eyes, and that gives you some confidence back. You don't feel weak at all, for admitting your terrible mistake; you feel stronger.

"I… I don't understand magic, I guess. What it is, and how it works…"

Someone arrives at the back of the crowd, and a wooden cup of water is passed up to Merlin, who sips tentatively – then swallows more eagerly.

"I…" you pause, because after all, you are too proud to beg. "I would like to learn." So when arrests are made and orders given, you don't just agree and follow, you think and decide, like Hunith said, and try to listen to your conscience. But that does require… "I know I don't deserve it, but if you can forgive me…"

You look at the fair-haired druid, whose face betrays nothing. At Merlin, whose tired eyes have lit with something that looks like hope.

"My father doesn't listen, and I don't always have the freedom to oppose him, but… if I am king…" You find yourself toying with your cuffs, examining your own rope-burns from struggling with your bonds. "When I am king," you say softly.

And then what? At least you won't execute children. Women who haven't hurt anyone – druids who don't have magic, people who help those sort of people. Tavern-keepers and market-vendors who don't ask a druid's identity when serving or selling.

"Maybe things can change," you finish lamely.

No one says anything, and you feel painfully awkward – it doesn't work to lift your chin and act royal; these people aren't impressed by that.

But the fair-haired druid speaks. "By the gods," he says, and there's awe in his voice. "It is _him_. You were right, Emrys – I see it now."

Merlin is smiling wearily – at you, at him, at everyone. Hunith takes his hand.

The black-bearded man says bemusedly, "I do, also – why didn't we see it, before? Why didn't we see it yesterday?"

Hunith says, "You saw a Pendragon."

Merlin adds, in explanation, "He hadn't accepted it himself, then."

"Now his intentions align with his destiny, it is much clearer to see," the druid leader says. And then, ducking his head a little but meeting your gaze, "My lord, we beg your forgiveness, also. Perhaps we too were blinded by hatred and prejudice."

You sigh, thinking of the knights' conversation, before and after such raids, arrests and execution. Mockery makes a doubtful duty easier to perform.

"That happens," you say.

For a moment everyone is silent – thoughtful, expectant. The leader glances around the circle, then looks at you. "Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, you are hereby pardoned fully and freely. You have our whole-hearted allegiance as the promised king of a united Albion, and we will aid you to our utmost in your quest to restore magic to Camelot. Say what amends we need to make, and we will make them."

"What?" you say, alarmed. What's this prophesied destiny – bring magic _back_? But… fairness within the law…

"Someday," Merlin says to reassure you.

"Until then," Hunith says dryly, "maybe we should think of healing, for the boys – and breakfast."

The next few hours are almost as surreal as the day before. The children run past laughing and calling to Emrys; the women smile in greeting, the men are pleased to catch their prince's eye to exchange a nod of shared wellbeing.

And that's only slightly diminished when they see you sitting next to him.

Hunith feeds you flat-cakes, and you eat twice as many as Merlin and he calls you fat. You can't believe your ears – and then he grins. And when you shove his shoulder, so that he almost falls off the log, he comes up laughing instead of swinging.

An old healer with round cheeks and a long braid smears salve on your wrists and his neck. The bandage-cloth lies flat under your cuffs, but Merlin gets quickly impatient with her trying to wind a covering for the rope-wound about his neck – and flatly refuses to allow her to anchor it by passing strips of cloth under his arms.

Hunith smiles and fetches a square of old blue cloth, folding it to tie gently in a loose knot behind his neck, and letting the points fall down his chest. He smiles in relief and she kisses his forehead.

Then she turns and kisses yours – and you almost fall off the log.

He falls asleep, leaning half against the tree trunk behind you, and half on your shoulder; his weight is warm through your chainmail. Feeling him breathe, after he'd almost stopped forever, is soothing, so you let him. And when he wakes and pretends he never drifted off, you pretend right along with him.

But before long, everyone is restively remembering your patrol and your father. Black-beard and Flat-nose bring you to the edge of the forest, where the citadel is in plain view, and Merlin goes with you.

"You didn't have to come, if you were too tired," you say, when he stumbles like he's nearing the end of his endurance.

"Shut up," he retorts.

You open your mouth to remind him that nobody can address a prince that way – and then reckon, he's probably earned the right to address you any way he likes, for the rest of his life. So you only say, " _You_ shut up."

And it's stupid, and he grins like he's won. Which, you guess, he has.

But so have you.

Once you hide from a search party of your men, and it feels odd – like you're a naughty little child – but also _right_. A lot of trouble will be avoided if you simply walk up to the gates. You've already decided to say you fell from your horse and hurt your leg, and that is how you were separated from the patrol, no matter what ridicule you might draw – or suspicion from Gaius, who always _knows_.

"I've never seen Camelot this close before," Merlin says thoughtfully. "Who is going to teach you about magic there?"

"I don't know," you say honestly.

Of course you can't simply slip away from everyone to visit Merlin's camp, though the elders have given you a few basic teachings to consider already. Gaius and Geoffrey will tell you the truth – but not much else, probably, for fear of your father's accusations, if they are discovered.

"I'll come someday to teach you," he says suddenly. Both druid men look at each other, alarmed, behind his back where he can't see. "In a few years, when I've learned a lot more, and I'm old enough to leave the camp on my own."

The thought makes you nervous – and excited. "Okay," you say. "I can't… pledge your safety. But I will promise, every effort to protect you, and your identity."

"Can you keep a secret to save your life," he says impishly.

You snort – and wish you could get to know him better, sooner. You have a feeling you've only scratched his surface.

Offering him your hand in farewell and friendship, you shove yours past his extended response to clasp his forearm. It feels like a stick of kindling with skin on, but his grip is surprisingly strong.

"Til then," you say. And, more awkwardly, "Thanks for… everything."

"Don't forget," he says, without being specific. But he doesn't really have to be; every moment of this odd adventure is memorable.

"Never," you say. And turn toward the citadel of Camelot.

The first time you turn to look back, Merlin waves.

The next time, there's no one there.

It occurs to you that you _have_ fallen from your horse, and hit your head, and had the most incredible dream.

But in your heart, you know the truth.

 **Tbc…**


	7. DP 3

**A/N: I've already done druid-Merlin-in-Camelot episode rewrites, so I'm not going to try that again. Just a couple of key episodes…**

 **The Druids Prince** , pt. 3

 **The Dragon's Call**

Usually you find that training – the repetitive and wearying physical exertion, the violence of the movements – exercises your frustrations. Whatever they may be. And once you're exhausted, you're calmer and you see things more clearly.

Today, all you're seeing is that your current manservant is dimwitted and sullen. Nothing specific you can punish, nothing you can correct… and no hope that another might be better.

And you're trying, you're trying your hardest, to forget the failure and humiliation of yesterday, locked in your room because you dared protest the execution to the king. _Conspiring to use enchantments and magic – such practices are banned on pain of death._

 _Yes, but the sorceress was his mother and they lived in the same home. What did you expect him to do, betray her to her death?_

 _I expected him to follow the law. Now, I have a law to follow._

You're snapping your body forward before you even realize, before Morris has a chance to correct the placement of the target, as if the vehemence with which you fling your dagger into the painted circle will somehow reach the king's realization.

Another son who hadn't hurt anyone; another mother vowing revenge as if that will change anything. As if hurt can be lessened by spreading it around.

When, _when_ will he start listening to you? Ever?

Morris trips, and you catch the next knife back before it leaves your fingers, watching the target roll away over the grass – and he's disagreeable enough to have tripped on purpose - to be stopped by a stranger's worn boot.

"Hey, come on, that's enough. You've had your fun, my friend."

The newcomer is a young peasant, tall and thin. Smiling disarmingly at you and the few young knights you've been allowing to egg you on. And you know that smile, and you recognize his hair, his eyes.

The kerchief tied around his neck, to hide the scar he wears for you.

To hide your reaction, and to be sure he knows _you_ , you flip the knife in your hand and saunter closer. "Do I know you? You called me friend…"

He tilts his head; he wears confidence and a shabby brown jacket instead of a cloak now – that garment would give away his identity, rather than hiding it. You wonder if the druids have begun listening to _him_. Probably, if they've let him come to Camelot.

"Perhaps I was mistaken," he offers. "I'd never have a friend who could be such an ass."

You can't help grinning at his careless insolence – which he has earned the right to express, you remember all too well. And you're close enough now that no one will overhear you.

"I have been working on that," you tell him.

He gives you a mocking look of disbelief, gesturing to Morris, who's leaning to pick up the target.

You roll your eyes and huff. "This is Morris, my manservant who hates me but can't afford to quit or irritate me enough to fire him. He was never in any danger and he knew it, right, Morris?"

"Beg pardon, sire?" Morris says, deliberately stupid like when he mixes up orders or forgets to wake you in time for early-morning responsibilities.

"Never mind, you're dismissed." You sigh, and watch him lumber off slowly under the weight of the scarred wooden circle-target. The knights have departed, also, and no one seems to be paying the two of you much attention.

"So you do remember," Merlin says.

"I promised I would." You meet his eyes, and give him a shallow but significant bow – one prince to another. He fires red all the way to his ears, shuffling his boots, and you add, "But I can't have a friend who could be so stupid as to insult the crown prince in front of _witnesses_."

His mouth quirks, and you can tell he's not sorry. You can tell he's already arranging himself mentally to insult you in private as much as possible, for as long as his visit might last. Which is perfect, honestly; he's your equal and he might as well feel free to speak his mind.

"All right," he says. "In public we'll play our roles, prince and peasant, and any other time…"

"I'll have to put up with your disrespect," you finish.

"Earn my respect, and then you won't have to," he retorts, his eyes glinting with humor – but sincerity, also.

But that reminds you of yesterday. "I… haven't been doing a very good job of making a difference," you admit. "No one will listen to me, and until I'm _king_ , one man alone can't do much to change anything."

"I didn't see you in the courtyard yesterday," he says.

You grimace, realizing that he must have witnessed the death of an essentially innocent man. "I was prevented from attending because I was expected to protest."

"Ah." He nods, studying you, then juts his chin determinedly. "Well, you're not alone anymore." There's a finality to his statement that makes you think, this is more than just a druid's foray into the citadel of Camelot, strike and retreat.

"You've come to stay?" you ask carefully, feeling a mix of hope and satisfaction surge upwards through your chest. You contain your expression though, knowing you're both going to have a job of it, keeping his identity and abilities secret.

"My mother knew Gaius – and he knows about me," Merlin tells you.

Oh, good – Gaius is well-practiced at giving plausible excuses to the king; he'll definitely help. "Your mother is well?" you ask, because you've missed her too, at times.

He nods. "She and Gaius both said it would be a good idea if I got a job. An obvious reason to be staying here – and if I'm to help you learn about… things I've learned, then it should be something where we can be together regularly without raising suspicion?"

You squint into the sun – which isn't that bright, really – thinking. "Well, you can't train for a knight, or a soldier, you haven't the muscle for it."

"Hey," he says, but grins.

"You're not old enough to be a tutor – and I've progressed past classroom lessons, anyway." You frown. "I can't think of any other job that wouldn't be… menial service."

"I wouldn't mind that," he says, a bit puzzled as if he's not sure why you wouldn't consider it.

"But you're –" You stop, and glance about to make sure no one's drifted into your hearing range without your notice. "Royalty."

He makes a dismissive noise. "Everyone shares chores equally in my… village," he says. "Honestly. Wouldn't mind."

You still don't want him on his hands and knees scrubbing your floor. Morris does a decent job of keeping your quarters clean, actually, because he can do that while you're not around. And surely even Merlin could do a better job running errands, keeping information – or laundry, or equipment - correct and on time? And there's the blacksmith and armoror; there are washer-women and stable-boys and kennel-boys to do the dirtier work.

"Morris absolutely hates attending me," you say slowly.

"Attending you?" Merlin says.

"It's… kind of a mix of things," you say, hesitant because it's odd to suggest another prince for the position of manservant; but he's not proud at all anyway, and doesn't want anyone to recognize him. "Some paperwork, some meetings – just going with me on foot or mounted patrols… Morris isn't very good at reading or writing, and he's scared of horses and bandit attacks…"

Merlin actually snickers, his eyes lighting with his smile and something in your chest relaxes. "I can do that. And it shouldn't be too hard to give you lessons in my art, in and around those duties."

" _Art_ lessons?" a sharp female voice demands.

Your heart plummets, to thud somewhere near your heels. You turn to see your nemesis toss her black curls and narrow her green eyes at Merlin as she closes with you.

"Art lessons for Arthur?" she prompts mockingly.

"Calligraphy," Merlin says, absolutely guileless. "The artistry of ancient writings and texts. Language, and history."

"You're kidding me," Morgana says to him, then turns to you. "Gwen said she saw you from the window – you _bowed_ to him. So who is he?"

There is indeed another girl present – the pretty, plump-cheeked dark-eyed shy blacksmith's daughter lingering uncertainly in Morgana's shadow. She gives you a quick, apologetic glance. It's all right, though; you know Morgana's nosy, and it isn't Gwen's fault.

"I saw you in the window yesterday, too," Merlin says to her. "You turned away from the execution."

Morgana tosses her head and lifts her chin like royalty, herself. "He practiced some magic, he didn't hurt anyone. And I don't think chopping someone's head off is cause for celebration."

Merlin looks at you, and you know what he's thinking. _No, don't trust her_ , you think back at him, scowling and giving your head a surreptitious shake. _She doesn't know how to hold her tongue; she'll get mad and say the wrong thing to the wrong person-_

"So tell me," Morgana demands, keen as a bloodhound on a scent.

"It was a joke," you say lamely. "I was showing him how he should have greeted me."

"I'm to be his new manservant," Merlin adds helpfully. "I've never done it before, so I have lots to learn…"

You roll your eyes; Morgana will never believe that you just hired such an absolute novice, for any reason whatsoever.

"Maybe I'll ask your father what he thinks," she threatens in challenge. "Perhaps he'll recognize your friend – someone's son, maybe? a royal or a noble? here in disguise…"

"Please don't," Merlin says, quiet but firm, and his eyes flash – blue fire, not gold. You're taken a bit aback – but so is Morgana, which doesn't happen often. He looks at you. "Your father knew my father," he explains. "If he starts wondering and guessing… I've been told I look like mine, a bit, just as you look like yours. A bit."

You decide to ask him later, to tell you about who his father was – not just a druid, then, to have been familiar with the king.

"If you breathe so much as a single word that puts him in danger," you say, pointing at Morgana's nose. Her eyebrows lift, but her taunting demeanor drops; you think the maid Gwen might be holding her breath.

"I'm a druid," Merlin says. "I met Arthur a few years ago. I've come to teach him what a king should know about magic."

Gwen gasps. Morgana's eyes widen, and she looks at you uncertainly.

"No, I don't agree with all of my father's policies," you say. "But no, I don't disagree with him in public, either."

"But… you bowed?" Morgana says, still off-balance.

"He's not just a druid, he's their prince," you say, swiftly and quietly. "Now are you satisfied? And if you can't manage to keep your tongue behind your teeth where he's concerned, I'll never forgive you."

Morgana looks at Merlin, who gives her a smile – and his hand. "Merlin, my lady."

"Nice to meet you," she says faintly – and there's color in her cheeks as she watches him incline his head over her hand.

And you've loitered long enough. You nudge Morgana into moving, steering her back toward the citadel.

"Who knew you could be such a rebel," she says to you.

"Not a word, please, Morgana," you say. "And, this is not a rebellion. This is conscientious preparation for my own reign, whenever that day comes."

She looks at you, dress rustling and shoes clicking along at your side.

Behind you, you hear the maid say, "I'm Guinevere, my lord, but most people call me Gwen. I'm the Lady Morgana's maid."

"Right. And I'm just Merlin. Prince Arthur's manservant, apparently."

"I swear on my father's grave," Morgana says to you suddenly, quietly serious. "If he is discovered, it will not be through my carelessness."

"Thank you," you say. About half relieved.

"I'm surprised," she adds. "But also… proud of you, Arthur." You stop at the intersection of a pair of corridors, expecting that your way and hers will diverge here, and she begins to angle away before adding with more customary sarcasm, " _Finally_."

"And a lovely day to you too, Morgana," you grit through your teeth.

She tosses her head and flounces away, Gwen following more sedately in her wake. Merlin drifts up beside you to watch them depart.

"Do you trust her?" he says, sounding more contemplative than uneasy.

Probably as the prince of magic-users, he'd have no trouble magicking himself out of trouble, anyway… but then you'd have to deal with the repercussions with your king. And they'd probably be massive – welcoming a sorcerer into the citadel, allowing him access and intelligence and license to use his magic judiciously… You reassure yourself, even Uther can't execute his heir. If he tries, though, you're pretty sure Merlin will protect you.

"I guess we'll see," you say, somewhat fatalistically.

"She's very pretty," he adds.

You almost say, _Which one?_ But instead you grunt and turn away yourself. "I'll show you around a little. Where my quarters are, and where the feast tonight will be…"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

 **The Beginning of the End**

(y'know. or not.)

You stand in the king's council chamber – empty now but for you and he, just like you planned – leaning over the back of the chair to his left. Keeping your gaze on the tabletop so you – and therefore the king – can continue the conversation even-tempered. Because you still _hope_ , one of these days he'll listen to you, without suspecting the reason you don't share his beliefs.

"The druid," you say, "was only in Camelot to collect supplies, he meant no harm. Is it really necessary to execute him?"

"Absolutely necessary," the king says, without thought. He's leaned over the table like you are, but signing a parchment; you're afraid it's the execution order. "Those who use magic cannot be tolerated."

You grip the top of the chairback a little bit tighter. "The druids are a peaceful people."

"Given the chance, they would return magic to the kingdom," the king states, replacing his quill and lifting a goblet of watered wine. He's still giving less than half his attention to the conversation you consider of life or death importance.

Well, it's true enough, the druids would return magic to the kingdom if they had the chance. But, having seen what Merlin is capable of, as their prince – and more importantly, what he's _not_ capable of – you're rather for than against that goal, as well. Someday. Slowly and carefully.

"They preach peace, but they conspire against me," the king continues, betraying impatience with your refusal to agree. He replaces his goblet on the table and begins to stride toward the door.

"If you won't hold a trial, how can you know there's a conspiracy?" you argue. Expecting now he'll take notice – but it'll be negative attention. He's simply not _listening_ , and he ignores your question. Trial, what trial. There's never a trial.

"We cannot appear weak." He doesn't even slow his steps, and you can't help straightening, trying one more time.

"Showing mercy can be a sign of strength," you suggest. Mercy for those who understand mercy – but the king can't judge that if he won't even meet and converse with the prisoner he's condemning unheard.

The king finally turns to face you. "Our enemies will not see it that way," he points out. "We have a responsibility to protect this kingdom. Executing the druid will send out a clear message." He turns again, stalking out of the room without hesitation, throwing a repetition of his earlier orders over his shoulder. "Find the boy. Search every inch of the city."

You clench your jaw, but don't answer back. That's something you've learned from Morgana, actually – what not to do.

All the men have their orders already, searching by patrols their prearranged locations, according to a not uncommon procedure. The best thing that can be said for it, is that you're free to join any one of them – or not – though if the searches aren't successful, you'll be held accountable.

You head for your chambers, already guessing why the druid's young companion hasn't yet been found, even though he was reported injured by witnesses.

The thing is, the king is partly right. The enemies Camelot has beyond her borders probably would consider it weakness for a condemned criminal to be allowed freedom, or for a young boy to evade capture. There are a few you can think of that might even press their luck and the borders, and lives might be lost in defense, if there is any hint that the discipline of Camelot is slipping. It's also true that executing the man sends out a clear message, of exactly what the king wants his rule to be – absolute.

But you can't help the awareness that the law which makes the druid a criminal, is deeply flawed. Which means his execution is morally wrong… So if you'd prevent that wrong, you have to break the law…

It's giving you a headache, and you almost forget what you expect to find, when you push inside your chambers.

Not just Merlin. Not, just two druid boys.

Closer to you, pouring water from his pitcher into a cup, Guinevere in smooth cream and bright yellow, most of her curls pinned up off her neck, a look of concern twisting her features slightly. She looks up – and beyond her, so does Morgana, pale and distraught in green silk, each hand squeezing the other as if they want to help and don't know.

"That's Arthur, isn't it?" Merlin's voice comes from farther away – and down by the floor, actually.

"Is he here?" you ask – all three of them, whoever is going to answer first. You know there isn't much time; you're going to be required to stand on the balcony with the king and show support – but if Merlin is present also, there's a chance. If he'll take it. You're sure he'll take it. "The boy, I mean? He's here, isn't he – and safe for the moment?"

"He was hurt," Merlin says, still hidden from your view. "He's sleeping now, but he's very pale – I think he's lost a lot of blood. And there's always the danger of infection."

"Merlin," you say, trying to impress upon him the urgency of the situation – greater than he knows, and then he appears in the arch-way between the two chambers, eyebrows up expectantly.

For once, without the neckerchief that covers his hanging scar from when you were boys. You're startled, because he never takes that thing off, maybe not even to sleep - til you think maybe he's used that as a temporary bandage for the boy. Yep, definitely danger of infection.

"Here's the thing," you say. "The execution of the boy's companion is imminent. And then my father will demand results of my search for the boy and suspicion will mount and nowhere will be safe."

"But he's not in any condition to leave," Merlin protests, gesturing down and to the side – it looks like maybe, behind your bed, on the bearskin rug. Comfortable and easy to move – you approve; it's doubtful anyone but your father would dare demand to search here. But… it might come to that.

"I'll take your word," you say, and look at the girls. "Morgana, you can refuse to attend the execution–"

"Definitely," she says, with a jerk of her chin, putting her hands on her hips.

"Then, during, get Gaius up here to see to the boy. No one will be paying attention to you, then."

You realize, suddenly, they're all looking at you – and they're the ones taking the risks, here. As the king's heir, you're not really in _danger_. Hells, you hope someday you deserve this sort of loyalty and willingness to obey.

"All right," you said, a bit more harshly impatient than you intend, because of the knowledge of your own inadequacy. "Merlin, you're with me."

He doesn't say anything, following you out of the room, keeping up as you march toward the balcony overlooking the courtyard where the executioner's platform is set up, the heads-man waiting. He doesn't say anything as you step out into the open air, the king giving you a cursory glance before facing his gathered people below.

"People of Camelot," the king begins, loudly enough for his voice to carry to every corner. "The man before you is guilty of using enchantments and magic."

He'd come for supplies, and only used magic in attempted escape, you've gathered from speaking to the guards involved. Though they don't realize, you make the differentiation as the king does not.

But then Merlin does speak. Murmuring in your ear so close he brushes the material of your jacket over your right shoulder-blade.

"What am I supposed to do?" Inquiry, not insolence.

You shrug that shoulder so he can feel it. "Whatever you can, to save his life. Only _don't get caught_."

He passes you, so that you stand between him and the king; he can probably see the platform with the druid and the executioner better from the corner of the balcony. And the king won't be able to see him at all, if he even thinks to look at your manservant when all hell breaks-

The heads-man lifts his ax, then puts his strength behind the weight of the sharpened metal in a downswing that's sufficient to slice a man's neck and spine clean through; you've seen it happen.

This time, the ax rebounds like it's hit a concave shield; the executioner staggers, and the druid is on his feet, face upturned again and mouth open in surprise. Hands loosed, also.

"What is going on?" the king bellows, leaning on his grip on the edge of the balcony. The people gasp and cry out, shying away from the platform and pulling together in groups more than before.

You hear Merlin murmur again, a plea and a command. " _Go. Go_!..."

The druid takes a running leap, darting through the crowd and making for the open gates.

"Close the gates!" the king commands, anyone and everyone. "Don't let him escape! Kill him on sight!"

All six of the red-clad guards at the courtyard gates lean their strength into shutting those doors before the druid can reach them. Behind you, Merlin leans his strength into keeping them open, you can tell by another low murmur that again escapes the king's hearing in the chaos.

As the druid slips right between the doors, pursued by another half-dozen of the closest soldiers of Camelot, the invisible interference with the hinges disappears, suddenly and completely – and they slam shut between the escaping fugitive and the soldiers, with such force that it seems it will take several more moments to wrench them open again.

"Open the gate!" the king is hollering. "After him!"

You have to bite back your smile, realizing that the patrols of the lower town have been recalled to witness the execution. There might be another squad or two of knights further out on the forest tracks, but your common people won't so much as risk touching an accused sorcerer. His way is free to the woods – and past that perimeter, you're confident no one can catch him.

Now, all you have to worry about is the child.

The king turns on you so suddenly you're glad you stopped the smile of shared triumph. "Go hunt him down! Do not return until you can bring me his head!"

"Father, really," you protest. Which might give the druid a few more minutes before you'll have to pursue also. "He could have done more than just escape – he didn't hurt any of us-"

"You deliberately delay!" he accuses you, and you straighten in reaction.

"Not at all." Yes, though, actually. "I was merely thinking that if we discover his companion, the wounded boy, we can lure him back to us, without wasting time and energy chasing him into the forest, where we've never had much luck finding a single one of his kind."

Camps were easier. Merlin touches you briefly on the back of your shoulder, and it's a reassuring reminder of forgiveness and change.

The king's eyes narrow. "Yes. I can see the sense in that idea. Fine, then – it is your campaign to carry out."

You sigh inwardly. And when the searches and the patrols – please heaven – turn up nothing day after day until you're forced to concede defeat, it'll be your fault. Your humiliation, but also your victory.

The king passes you, and you leave the balcony behind him, saying over your shoulder to Merlin, "I'm going to need my sword in the search for the boy."

"It's in your chamber, sire," he says respectfully.

Your chamber has gained another visitor during the execution. Gaius stands beside Morgana on the opposite side of your table giving directions for the patient to the king's ward; she glances at you but Gaius doesn't, until he finishes.

"Well?" he asks, raising one eyebrow.

Merlin slips in behind you, closing the door behind him. "His guardian escaped the execution."

"Incredible," the old physician says dryly, and you grin cocky-like at Morgana, who rolls her eyes. "The boy is very sick, but with the proper care, I would say he'd be ready to move tonight."

"I'll take him," Morgana says immediately – and lifts her chin as you, Merlin, and Gaius all look at her. "I'll smuggle him out of the castle. There's no way that Uther will execute me for assisting the druid boy's escape, even if he does learn about it."

You grimace, shaking your head. "No good, Morgana – we don't want you avoiding execution, we want to avoid the king knowing we were involved at all. You go to dinner with him; Merlin and I will get the boy to the armory, then he will take him out to the lower town where Gwen will be waiting in her house for them."

Gwen moves into view at the arch to the other room, brightly attentive and willingly cooperative, and you smile to acknowledge her.

"I'll replace the shield covering the escape tunnel, and continue on with the search," you finish. "Any questions?"

"What about objections?" Morgana says, like she just can't help being defiant.

"Not allowed." You smirk at her, but she doesn't actually have any point to quarrel with, so she only tosses her head and looks away.

"Please be careful, all of you," Gaius says, coming around the table and you, toward the door that Merlin opens for him. "Woe betide anyone caught helping him."

"Yes, thank you," you say, and he grumbles under his breath, but leaves.

Your sword is on the side table by the arch; Gwen watches as you cross the room and pass the belt around your waist beneath the long jacket you're wearing. "Are you sure about this, my lord?" she says, and you wish she wouldn't use your title. "I thought the idea was for you to be able to honestly claim you hadn't set eyes on the boy at all?"

Very sharp of her to realize you'd intended that. "His life is more important than my honesty," you say, focusing on the buckle.

Behind you, Morgana has gone to Merlin at the door, and from the corner of your eye you see her give him a folded cloth. He opens it and refolds it, to tie around the back of his neck, and because there aren't any bloodstains, you realize that she must have thought of retrieving it for him when she and Gwen fetched Gaius from their shared chambers. She's not paying any attention to you or Gwen, because she says to Merlin,

"Not all the druids choose magic, do they?"

"No," Merlin answers, his chin down as his hands are busy behind his neck – so maybe he's not aware of how close Morgana is standing, in that fine green silk dress. "But occasionally there are those that magic chooses…"

"How do you know if you are one of those?" she asks, absently flipping the pointed ends of his concealing neckerchief over his heart.

He drops his hands and smiles at her. "Magic is a gift," he says. "Once you learn how to control yours… it's hard to think of it as anything else."

"Mine?" Morgana says confusedly, and your heart stops.

"This is not something we need to be chatting about right now," you say, striding toward Merlin and the door, and Morgana steps back. "We need to look like we're searching for the boy – and you need to get ready for dinner."

Morgana nods. "Gwen, you stay here," she orders. "Take care of the boy – I can manage to prepare for dinner on my own for once."

You jerk the door open and the two of them follow you out, closing one of the only doors that won't be opened willy-nilly on this search. Deliberately you choose the route that will take you in the opposite direction of Morgana's chambers, and she and Merlin part without further conversation.

"What was that about?" Merlin asks you once you've turned a corner.

"Her dreams," you say. "She doesn't actually know. Gaius thinks it would scare her too much to have to keep the secret you keep, from the king."

He hums. "I think she'd be able to handle it. And anyway, it might be scarier to wonder and not know for sure, than to confirm and control."

You take a deep breath and realize, it's probably his prerogative to decide the matter, as the prince of the druids, rather than you.

Merlin adds, far too calmly, "Are you aware that a captive dragon beneath your dungeon doesn't want us helping the boy? Something to do with destiny."

You stop dead in the hall and glance around instinctively – but of course he hasn't said that where anyone could hear. His face and eyes betray nothing but objective curiosity, though. "You've seen it?" you demand.

He shrugs like it's no different than seeing horses in the stable. "I can hear his voice," he says, and tilts his head so that you understand what he means.

You roll your eyes. "Does what he said make you want to change your mind?"

Merlin leans a little closer, studying you. "Does it make you want to change your mind?"

You shrug. Honestly, it might make you that much more determined to help the nameless boy escape.

Then Merlin's most brilliant smile breaks out – the one that makes you feel like the sun is shining and all is right with the world and nothing bad will ever happen again. "Then, no. I'm in."

…

Later that night, in hanging the last shield on the back wall of the armory, you have a moment to wonder whether your druid is going to come back after delivering the boy to his people in the forest.

…

And in the morning, when he wakes you with an obnoxiously cheerful, "Morning! Time to rise and shine!" you wonder why you wondered that at all.

Merlin isn't going to let you struggle through figuring out right and wrong and magic on your own. He's always going to come back. And you can face anything – your mistakes, his mistakes, Morgana's magic, the dragon and druid boys – together.

 **A/N: Sorry if the ending seems a bit abrupt, I just decided not to drag on rewriting episodes, and also b/c the next story does a good bit of that also… But let's move on to something completely different. *winks***


	8. The Liftlic

_**The Liftlic**_

They called it the Whispering Wood, and it was forbidden to the citizens of Camelot to pass through it, for as long as Arthur could remember. The whole place was mystic in a way not even King Uther Pendragon could combat, so he forbid it, and did his best to ignore it, and gossip turned to rumor turned to whisper.

And now, the path was hardly discernible. Arthur sat his saddle and toyed with his reins and tried to visually penetrate the trees and bushes, grasses and brambles, as his mount's ears swiveled alert to noises imperceptible.

It was forbidden. But if he went around, it would add two days to his trip. And already he regretted the time lost to the stupid bet made with Morgana. Also lost.

Experimentally, Arthur loosed the reins over his horse's neck, and pressed in his heels, to see what the beast's instincts were. His mount jerked its head, picked up its hooves and set them down as if uncertain of the footing – soft loam beneath straggling weedy grass – but moved forward.

And in moments, Arthur was beneath the spreading branches of the trees that were part of the Whispering Wood. Over and around him the breezes played, and twigs rubbed and stretched like fingers squeezing inside leather gloves.

 _Scree-scratch._

He couldn't make out more than a handful of paces along the path, ever, it wound so subtly through the underbrush. The distances dimmed gloomily, but around him visibility was relatively clear. He squinted upward, but no blue sky or yellow sun penetrated the canopy overhead.

It was too quiet. If forest creatures braved this wood, they did so surreptitiously – unless he was the most fearsome thing to traverse the path.

Disconcerting thought.

He suddenly hoped that the air currents that touched his face and shoulders and sidled on, didn't recognize the Pendragon crest or the scarlet-and-gold of his tunic. That the draping ivy and willow fronds that sometimes brushed and lingered over his arms and hair didn't smell his heritage. He felt something of an enemy, here. Might this be viewed as an incursion, and responded to?

The grasses rustled around his horse's legs, and it plodded readily on, ears in constant motion. Arthur didn't know whether that was reassuring or not – no threat to pinpoint the location of. Was it all around him, or nonexistent? The air sighed, and suddenly he felt the hairs stir on the back of his neck, all down his forearms beneath his sleeves, and his ears actually pulled toward some undiscernible sound.

He dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword in the saddle-sheath. The horse halted.

 _Pllleeeeeeaasssssse…_

Arthur shivered involuntarily, and cast a quick glance all around him – even above him. The Wood whispered actual _words_?

The sound came again, a soft and directionless plea, a distant sob. _Pleeeassse… ohhhhhh…_

Maybe there were ruins here. Sometimes an odd rock formation – natural or man-caused – resulted in weird whistling when the direction of the wind was just-

A brief gust buffeted him gently, and he blinked against it.

 _Hello?_

And he relaxed. That had been a voice, he was sure of it. Remote, but comprehensible.

 _Hello? Plleeeaassssee… Heeelllp... Help. Mercy. Pity… pleeeassse…_

Arthur shifted unintentionally, and the horse stepped forward. He couldn't see any further than before, but kept peering about for any sign of human passage or habitation.

"Hello?" he called nervously, feeling stupid. He tried to swallow the dryness in his throat, and wasn't completely successful. "Is someone there? Who are you?"

 _Oh, please… help. Where are you?_

Arthur hesitated to say, _here_ , and to someone he didn't know. "Where are you? I don't see you. What help do you need?"

 _Oh, help_ …

The voice was a low, dismal, hopeless sob, and it caught at Arthur's chivalry. Til he remembered – whoever might have come here to be lost, or trapped in a cave-in, or some such, would be a lawbreaker at least. Dangerous, maybe… magic. Or a victim of magic?

"Who are you? What sort of help do you need?" he called back. "Are you hurt?"

 _Don't leave me, please. For the love of mercy… help me. Please._

He was getting closer, the voice was clearer. Stronger, maybe – but he could imagine the sort of terror that might come of being stuck in a place like this, where aid could not be anticipated and despair was certain – and then someone came.

 _Oh, there you are_ … the voice said, and it sounded childish with wonder. _Please don't… leave me._

Air currents eddied around him, ruffling his sleeves and the edges of his trousers at his boots. A more insistent breeze lifted his hair from his brow – he realized he'd been sweating – and flipped the laces of his shirt at his collar.

"You can see me?" he called, looking around again, and no movement or unusual color like a person's clothing caught his eyes. "Where are you? I can't see you?"

 _Do you see the hawthorn?_

He sent his eyes around again, squinting and ducking lower in the saddle – realizing that his mount had stopped in its tracks.

 _The old hawthorn?_

The horse dipped its head to the right to eye Arthur, and shifted its weight as if impatient to be off. Or, to have Arthur be off.

 _The white hawthorn…_

Arthur glanced up and all around. The twiggy fingers of the trees clasped together, swaying and creaking and pulling, and it seemed to him that the light was a little better, a little softer and purer, off to the right. A clearing? The grass blurred a fresher green, too.

He dismounted, sliding the reins through his fingers to lead his horse. It followed, docile and willing and unafraid and he took comfort from that fact.

And he did see the hawthorn, at the middle of the clearing.

"Okay, I see the tree," he called, still searching around him. "Where are you?"

 _I'm here._

Arthur turned slowly, looking low and high. And he was in a mystic forbidden wood – granted, it didn't _look_ out of the ordinary, but… "Are you making fun of me?" he asked rather sternly, to cover trepidation. "I don't see anyone."

 _I'm the tree._

A cold tingle made its way up Arthur's spine and he turned to face the old white hawthorn. It swayed gently in the breeze. It didn't seem to creak ominously, like the other trees of the forest.

The voice amended _, I mean_ , _I'm in the tree_.

Arthur took a step back. Then another, shifting sideways so he could aim his boot for the stirrup – and then his mount's ribs. And gallop for freedom – why hadn't he listened to this one of his father's orders?

 _No, please don't leave!_ The agony was palpable, and froze Arthur in his tracks.

But nothing else happened… He didn't turn to stone, no vines shot up from the earth to hold him in place, his boots didn't sink into the earth like quicksand.

 _Please, you've no idea… how long it's been… please don't go. I call and call and no one comes and I'm… lonely._

Arthur stood still and considered. If he fled now, he'd wonder forever. And he was rather in a hurry – but when he returned from procuring the items to pay Morgana's bet, he'd either have to ride two days around, or… come back here. And it might be dangerous, but – there didn't seem to be an immediate threat.

"Who are you?" he said. Courage was one knightly trait he pursued above most others. "Why are you in there?"

A pair of wind-puffs, like someone gulping for breath and calm. _It was a witch. She cursed me, long ago. Imprisoned me here…_

"Why?" Arthur said curiously.

The hawthorn seemed to shiver, the small shiny leaves rustling delicately. _Jealousy and spite, mostly. I suppose she's dead by now, anyway, for all the good it did her._

"I'm sorry," Arthur said awkwardly, inadequately.

 _Thank you. I think I've learned my lesson._

Arthur caught at an odd and maybe rude urge to snicker at the sarcasm, even if the unknown entity didn't seem the sort to mind. The voice didn't sound at all like the dead moaning or the malevolent hissing told of around campfires on Samhain, luring the unwary to drown in bogs or crush their bones falling down into caves or pits, or be trapped overnight in haunted ruins to find that a hundred years had gone by when daylight finally came again.

The clearing around the hawthorn could have been any meadow in Camelot. Serene - nodding wildflowers shy in the grass, mayflies twirling their short lives away in mass unconcern. A snake twined its way toward – then away from Arthur's boot. He dropped his reins, and the horse plodded softly several steps before lowering its head to crop grass.

 _What about you?_ the voice asked, calmer and with interest. _Who are you?_

"My name is Arthur," he said, venturing closer to the hawthorn, step by step. Across the clearing a large brown rabbit paused in nibbling something between its front paws, and its long ears twitched. Arthur held still, watching it. "My father is the king of Camelot."

 _Camelot_ , the voice breathed, eager and interested, and Arthur found himself explaining about his bet with the king's ward.

The rabbit finished or discarded its tidbit, and hopped placidly several paces around the edge of the clearing before turning to rustle a short way into the concealing underbrush. Arthur continued toward the trunk exposed by the height of the lowest branches in a leisurely fashion, neither enticed nor repulsed by the hawthorn's end of the conversation, as questions flowed about his life and his friends.

Finally he placed his hand on the bole – smooth, rather than roughly striated, and soft like the spring horns of a young buck. Instantly he knew he was neither dreaming nor enchanted, himself; it was a tree like no other, thrumming subtly with life. It was as if he'd reached out to touch someone's warm living skin, and realized that a pulse could be felt, also. Nor was there any sense that he was invading privacy; the hawthorn sighed as if in contentment.

 _I'm glad you came._

A pair of birds twittered around each other, dissatisfied with one branch til they found another to settle on.

"I can't stay," Arthur said, surprised to hear regret and apology in his voice.

There was a moment of silence, and then… _If you go round the other side, you'll find a sort of fold in the trunk, running from the base as high as a man can reach. If you can find something to pry it open-_

But Arthur had stumbled back a few steps in mild alarm, snatching his hand back precipitously. "You can feel that?" he demanded. "Or – see where I am?"

 _I can sense you. How close, and in which direction._

That… wasn't too creepy. He himself could do the same with an opponent on the sparring field, even blind-folded. But Arthur was still unsettled, in a situation that magic had made extraordinary. Magic was an enemy he was relatively ignorant of, even if this person was a victim, himself. "What were you saying?"

 _If you can pry open the fold round back of the tree, I think it might serve to release me. I can almost reach, myself… but not quite._

Spoken so hopefully, and innocently, but a cascade of numb horror tumbled through Arthur's chest toward the pit of his stomach. Release the unknown, trapped by magic, with no guarantee what would happen.

 _Arthur?_

He turned his face away as if the tree could see his expression, or tell what he was thinking, and stumbled over grassy tussocks in reaching the opposite side of the tree. His mount was now in his field of vision, still placidly cropping slow mouthfuls of the clearing's grass. And yes, there was a long vertical fold in the trunk.

"What would you do if I set you free?" he asked. As if he could trust the answer.

But it wasn't, I would hunt that witch down and tear her apart along with anyone who got in my way. It wasn't, I would restore my empire and crush the kingdoms of men!

 _I'd start by restoring my Wood. It feels… desolate. And hopeless. Does it feel that way to you? It didn't used to._

"Did you live here?" he said. Aside from the voice – and the path – there had been no signs of habitation or husbandry. No overgrown gardens or orchards, no ramshackle hut or mossy-crumbling stone fences.

 _I still do._ Said indignantly.

"It's just," Arthur tried, "well, if you said you were lonely – this Wood, it's forbidden."

Silence.

"I mean," he added awkwardly, feeling as if he'd insulted someone's home. "People say it's haunted, or cursed…"

 _Because of me._

It wasn't a question; Arthur shrugged uncomfortably.

 _But you're here…_

"Well, I'm… the king's son." Who would stop him? Who would accuse him to the king? He didn't think the punishment for transgression was death, exactly – so he could afford to pay a fine, if it came to that.

 _I take it then… you must be very brave, to come here by yourself._

Brave or something. Arthur felt more awkward now than afraid, and he dared to put his hand back on the tree's trunk, his thumb very close to that inward fold. An unnoticed squirrel, clinging upside down on the trunk just out of arm's reach above his head, flicked its tail and whisked away upward, out of sight.

 _You're not going to do it, are you_. Softly, bleakly.

"I can't," Arthur said, hoping desperately that he would be understood. "I don't know… what will happen. My father… the laws on magic…"

 _You can't just take my word for it._ Not a question, but a quiet despair.

Arthur swallowed a lump in his throat. "I'm sorry."

The voice was slower to say, _Thank you._ And added a moment later, _Perhaps you'll be brave enough to pass this way again sometime? It does get… lonely._

"Perhaps," Arthur said.

Another moment of awkward silence, bordering on painful.

 _Maybe just go, if you're going to? I don't want to… embarrass myself._

Arthur backed toward his mount, searching for something to say. _Farewell_ would be almost rude.

 _I was glad to meet you…_

"You as well," he blurted. And turned to fumble for reins and stirrup, swinging himself up.

Taking a last look at the big white hawthorn. Pulling the horse's head back toward the path, and squeezing knees and bootheels to encourage its pace.

Behind him, silence. The air was still, no curious breezes or stray whispers or weird moaning.

He reached the path without incident, and turned in his destined direction. The leaves and branches were still too thick overhead to see the sky, but it seemed darker. More dismal – and once again the silence struck him, the utter lack of life beyond the hawthorn's clearing. That said something about the prisoner's character, didn't it? The mysterious person who'd inadvertently given the Wood its name and caused his own condition to worsen, in pleading for respite.

A pattering sound startled him, sounding like paws on the leaves around and above him, all over and at once, til a cold drip landed on his cheek, and another slid down his collar. Within moments his shirt and tunic were dotted with silent raindrops.

There had been no anger, no threats or promises or deals of the sort that always fooled the stupidly trusting or greedy traveler in tales. Just a desire for connection and companionship, even temporary, and the gathering of pride tattered by isolation.

His mount stopped, and Arthur didn't even recall intending to draw rein. Around him, drops fell uninterrupted by any wandering breezes. He turned and looked back, and could see neither clearing nor hawthorn.

His errand, though, seemed suddenly unbearably superficial. He couldn't imagine making his purchase – returning this way to offer gossip and platitudes? or avoiding? – arriving at the citadel to enjoy comfort and freedom more than most men, despite the strictures of his responsibilities. _Do you promise to exercise mercy and justice in your deeds and judgments…_

And sit at a patrol campfire to tell this story to a disbelieving audience. A jeering, mocking audience.

His fingers pulled the reins, his knees pressed the mount's flanks, and they walked, swish-swish through rain-flecked grass, back to the clearing.

Patter… drip-drip…

 _Arthur?_

He dismounted, drawing his sword from the saddle-sheath in one motion, then stalked toward the tree.

 _Arthur!_

Rounding the trunk to the opposite side, he raised his blade over his head two-handed, then sliced forward with all his strength, aiming to slide the last few inches of the sword right down the fold.

He expected the momentum would allow him to chop a hands-breath, maybe two, before his blade stuck.

But it didn't. There was resistance – his eyes were closed, and surprised muscles throughout his body seized again to find himself initially successful, to keep _cutting_ – and then the tip caught in a root, cleaving earth as he bent forward, heaving for breath in a surprised reaction.

His first thought, glancing up at the tree, was that he'd somehow missed. There was a straight vertical split opening – widening – just beside the fold, like the grain of a log separating before the wedge of a wood-cutter's axe-head. He lifted one hand from his sword-hilt, reaching to fit fingers into the new split, thumb into the natural-seeming fold, and pulled like he was trying to break down a prison-door one loosened plank at a time.

Pure white light sparked from the split, flashing out like lightning, and Arthur went tumbling onto the grass, losing his grip on his sword but retaining some splinter of the hawthorn's trunk in his off-hand. For a moment he was blinded.

Then he blinked away the blue-and-pink afterimages from his vision – and _gawked_ , making no move to rise from his sprawl in the grass.

The figure was male, lean and long-legged and black-haired. But… barefoot, and clad only in a pair of skin-close leggings made of soft fawn-colored hide. Above the garment's laces, there was subtle musculature of the flat torso, but not the detail of a man's chest, or the presence of a mother-to-child navel mark. His skin glimmered subtly, pearl-orange, and it reminded Arthur of when he used to catch butterflies as a child, and the material of their ephemeral wings rubbed off on the pads of his fingers. This effect ranged from below the wrist to below the jawline, as the figure touched and stared at his arms in awe of his physical freedom after so long – then raised eyes to Arthur's.

The coloring of his face was different, too. Eyes like sapphires for color and light refraction, bird-fine bones and milk-pale skin, and the shadows in the hollows of his eyes were touched with a deep-rose hue instead of expected purple-brown.

He looked at Arthur, his mouth dropped open in wonderment – then his whole face lighted with incandescent glee, and he leaped across the clearing.

Arthur struggled up from his elbows, twisting to watch the strange person darting across the grass – instead of disappearing into the underbrush gloom, he made an abrupt right turn as easily as any stag, to sprint around the clearing's edge. Speeding several quick steps, then leaping to soar over no need for several more – and his head was thrown back to laugh like sunlight rippling over a swift brook. His arms thrown wide to feel the wind he was creating – Arthur felt it as he bounded past, and it smelled like hay and sunflowers – and there were more rabbits popping up in his wake to stare after him, incredulous and fascinated.

Finally he came to a stop where Arthur had seen him first, before the hollowed-out trunk of the hawthorn, at a standstill but quivering with vitality and focusing a brilliant eager grin on Arthur.

Who said stupidly, "You're not human."

"No – I'm a _liftlic_ , of course." It was the very same voice, only spoken from a corporeal throat. Slightly deeper, slightly hoarse.

He'd never heard the term before. Magic, obviously – maybe something like a tree-spirit, or water-spirit? _Air_ -spirit?

One black eyebrow quirked, and the grin eased as he looked down at himself, then at Arthur to compare. "Oh. Because you _are_ a human. I didn't realize…" He gave himself a little shake, then stepped forward to offer Arthur a hand. "It doesn't matter. I don't mind."

He was between Arthur and his sword. Arthur lifted his eyes from the inaccessible blade to the human-like-but-not hand, and hesitated. Everything he'd always been taught about magic – and it was this creature to decide, it doesn't matter? Defiantly he thrust his hand out and was yanked so lightly to his feet he was breathless as he settled his balance, taken aback by the – also inhuman – strength.

"Thank you," he said, a gleeful laugh rippling through his eyes and chest in a way that made Arthur want to grin, too. "I should hug you, but I don't know what that would do to the pace of your heart-beat."

A joke? Arthur had only a moment to be dumbfounded, before he was thoroughly staggered, as the man – the _liftlic_? – folded himself to a graceful kneeling position.

"Master," he said. "What would you have me do first? How may I serve you?"

"You-" Arthur stammered. "I don't… want you to…" He gulped a steadying breath. "What do you mean?"

"You freed me," the _liftlic_ reminded him, upturned face still showing delighted. "I can never repay you, though I will try. You are my master now, and I your faithful servant, inseparable through the ages…"

"No!" Arthur said, alarmed, taking two steps back. "We can't. I can't, and you can't – magic is not allowed in Camelot, and you… you…" He gestured; the person was very clearly, not human.

"But I am magic," he answered, unperturbed. "And we are in Camelot." Casually he turned and retrieved Arthur's sword, handling it with his fingertips but demonstrating both strength and confidence, standing to extend the hilt to Arthur as though their conversation and what Arthur might do with the blade were completely disconnected. And maybe he wouldn't be able to stick the sword through the _liflic_ , and maybe it wouldn't actually do anything to him if Arthur did.

Arthur accepted his sword and held it awkwardly. He wasn't wearing a sheath at his hip, and it was unthinkable, after all, to point it at or use it on this newly-freed prisoner.

"I have my errand," he said. "And then I have to return home, to my duties. You cannot come with-"

"Oh!" the other said, eyes sparkling. Then he disappeared – so suddenly Arthur's heart skipped a beat, and his breath clogged his throat.

But there wasn't even time to whirl around and search behind him, before the strange _liftlic_ appeared again, making an offering of a new bundle laid across his forearms, with a pleased expression. Clearly, the object of Arthur's quest, Morgana's requirement in the winning of the bet, and of stunning quality, better than Arthur was anticipating available.

"Where did you…" he began stupidly, not moving to accept the bundle. A suspicion rose – "Did you steal this from someone?"

"Certainly not." The being looked indignant. "The purse on your saddle is two coins lighter. Though that must be where you want this, isn't it?"

Arthur blinked around the impression of movement, and the _liftlic_ 's arms were empty, crossed over his chest. Across the clearing, behind the saddle, the obvious bundle was fastened. Did this make Arthur guilty of using magic? Or Morgana, when he presented the unusually-acquired debt?

"You can't come to Camelot," he said. "They would try to kill you there. I can't be your master."

The _liftlic_ wasn't fazed. "You can't cancel the debt just by saying so. But I don't have to follow your every footstep to serve you efficiently, I promise. The moment you call, I will be there."

"How?" Arthur said, again feeling stupid.

A grin flashed. "I'm very fast."

He shook his head. No, it wasn't to be contemplated. He couldn't… be tempted. "How do I cancel the debt, then?"

Black brows drew down slightly, troubled. "The staff. When you are done with me, you break the staff."

Arthur realized he was still holding the piece of splintered tree-trunk in his left hand, a pace and a half long and three fingers' width. One side was flattened with the oddly soft bark, the rest was rounded but not uniformly, without danger of further splitting or slivers.

"I break the staff, and you're no longer bound to serve me?" Arthur said, to clarify. The air-spirit nodded, and Arthur thrust his sword into the earth a few inches for safekeeping, then grasped the staff in two hands spread wide, preparing to snap it in half over his knee.

"No-no-no, what are you doing?" The _liftlic_ seized the staff in his hands, right in the center where Arthur had planned the break. The glee was gone – the puzzlement was gone – what was left was almost terror, and Arthur halted.

"I can't have a servant like you," he said. He was going to add, I don't _want_ … but he couldn't make himself say it. What incredible power might this creature be capable of? What hard things lay in store in his future, in his reign, that might be made simple, with such a servant? An asset, a resource, a tool… a living breathing being. He pulled at the staff again, to be allowed to break it.

"No, you mustn't," the _liftlic_ protested, alarmed. "What if you need me? What if you need me, and you can't call me, and I can't hear you? No, you must keep it."

Arthur considered. It would be an insult to refuse – it would be a crime to accept. He had no right to empower himself so… but was the destruction of the temptation the righteous course? What if his kingdom someday needed a greater feat than he was capable of, to save it? It would require humility and restraint, to keep the staff and not use it until there was an emergency…

His grip slackened, and he let one hand go. The air-spirit watched him a moment more, then released his hold, satisfied that Arthur would keep the staff.

The magical artifact. Arthur shivered, and temptation subsided into awe and respect, somewhere deep inside where his skill as a fighter and his authority as the kingdom's heir resided.

"I should be going," he said.

"I should be staying," the other answered with a smile. "My land needs so much work. But I'll see you again."

Arthur nodded, and the _liftlic_ spread a low, fluidly elegant bow. No other words seemed needed, so he turned to cross the clearing to his mount, again. He sheathed his sword, and swung himself into the saddle, holding the staff like a standard-bearer without the banner. Gathering the reins, a thought struck him, and he looked back. "Do you have a name?"

"I am Merlin. When you need me, when you call for me, I will come."

A perfect name for a spirit of the air. Arthur smiled, and lifted his hand, calling, "Farewell!"

"And you…"

He glanced down momentarily to turn his horse's head back toward Camelot, reflecting as he rubbed his thumb over the smooth grain of the wooden staff, how he might've won more than Morgana, this time.

When he looked back again, Merlin was gone. But birdsong followed him all the way out of the Whispering Wood.

Tbc…

 **A/N: So I've been saying that I want to do a oneshot like this ever since I watched C.M. in "The Tempest"… How does it work? *winks***

 **PS,** _ **Liftlic**_ **means "aerial"… little pun, that.**


	9. Liftlic 2

**PPS, And the oneshot grows into episode-scene rewrites, sort of…**

 _ **Liftlic**_ **,** pt 2

 **1.1** _(Dragon's Call)_

Arthur was pinned to his chair with shock and cobwebs.

Lady Helen was not Lady Helen. She was almost crushed under the vast wooden chandelier – and throwing a knife at him, with magic and as much deadly accuracy as he ever used in target practice.

Sharp blade – glittering point – certain death.

A matter of days only since he'd passed through the Whispering Wood, so his mouth and mind shouted – whispered – one word.

 _Merlin!_

Time slowed. The knife carved the air, inexorably drawing closer - closer–

The _liftlic_ appeared, black-haired and half-naked, bounding effortlessly and barefoot through the hall between the tables. Easily he overtook the airborne blade and gave it a playful flick, self-satisfied glee lighting sapphire eyes that connected to Arthur's. Then disappeared past Arthur's seat and behind his range of vision.

Arthur blinked and time slammed into its proper pace. The knife slammed into the back of his chair, quivering inches from his ear and shoulder.

Gasps and screams and the dying rattle of a witch were distant. A gust of air curled across Arthur's face, bringing with it the scent of hay and sunflowers and a subtle laugh. He sat stunned as the king bawled orders and recrimination to the rest of the room, nobles and servants.

"What luck!" Uther exclaimed finally, wrenching the knife out of the wood of Arthur's chair.

"It wasn't luck," Arthur managed, still stunned; he'd expected to die, and then he didn't. He didn't bother turning his head in the direction Merlin had disappeared; apparently no one else had so much as glimpsed the air-spirit.

 _Did I just use magic?_

"What then, a guardian angel?" Uther mocked.

Something like that… And definitely, something to remember.

* * *

 **1.3** _(Mark of Nimueh)_

One month after Arthur had inadvertently called his _liftlic_ to Camelot to save his life, he deliberately called his _liftlic_ into Camelot to save his life.

Down in the belly of the citadel, dripping and dank in the cistern-tunnels, his sword was useless against the creature Gaius had called an afanc. It didn't speak, it didn't negotiate; he panted from the endless useless cycle of attack and retreat.

The torch guttered as he ran and swung and stumbled, the bodies of his men littering the rough shadowed floor.

Despairingly he fell back before one last swipe of those monster-nightmare claws and fangs-

Arthur screamed, " _Merlin_!"

The sweaty-pointy ends of his hair stirred with a breath of hay and sunflower. His fall was leisurely slowed – and as he dropped, another hand closed over his on his torch. Merlin's body glittered reflectively for a moment – then he and the torch blazed forward.

The afanc was engulfed in flames, wildly flickering in the rush of wind the _liftlic_ brought – it shrieked and writhed and collapsed still burning.

Arthur hit the ground, and bit his tongue.

The corpse charred and crumbled, stilling and extinguishing.

And in a moment, the survivors of the troop he'd brought with him surrounded him, exclaiming and querying, "Well done, sire! What a throw! What aim! Are you all right, sire? Are you hurt?"

Behind the furthest-crouching knight, Arthur looked up to see Merlin standing, hands on his hips over the waist-edge of the hide trousers. Eyebrows up as if to ask the same thing, but lips quirked in a triumphant grin.

"I'm all right," Arthur said to all of them, grasping the hands outstretched to pull him back to his feet. And to one specifically he added a heartfelt, "Thank you."

Merlin gave a glad little bounce on his heels, and disappeared.

* * *

 **1.4** _(Poisoned Chalice)_

Arthur had no notion of poison, drinking his father's wine from the goblet gifted him by King Bayard of Mercia. Even as his vision blurred and his legs stumbled and refused to hold his weight, he only registered confusion.

Not fear. Not dread. Nor pain…

The pain came later, slithering through the darkness and twining about his veins til his throat was hoarse and his heart exhausted from screaming. Stop – oh make it stop. _MerlinMerlinMerlin!_ Inside his own head, apparently, because his ears heard something else.

 _"Oh, Arthur…"_

 _"What in the name of all that's holy are you?"_

 _"I'm a_ liflic _. You can call me Merlin. And I'm Arthur's."_

 _"An air-spirit? Whenever can he have had the opportunity of finding you? What do you mean, you're his?"_

 _"Does that matter? What can I do for him? This is a dread poison, I can feel it…"_

 _"The poison was derived from the morteaus flower – I found a petal inside the goblet he drank from. So Arthur can only be saved by a potion made from the leaf of the very same flower, and it can only be found in the caves deep beneath the Forest of Balor. The flower grows on the roots of the Mortaeus tree-"_

 _"Okay, thanks!"_

 _"But it also says- Oh, goodness!"_

 _"Here you are. Morteaus leaf."_

 _"That's – oh, my. It is indeed. And how did you – ah. Air-spirit, of course. Very good, then, I'll be just a moment to concoct the potion."_

Arthur wanted to groan, to curl up or stretch out – he was on the patient bed in Gaius' chamber, but he knew the other voice, too. Merlin – who had shown himself to Gaius for Arthur's sake. And the pain coiling in his gut, rattling in his skull, kept him paralyzed and voiceless.

 _"There was a woman there, outside the cave."_

 _"A woman?"_

 _"She looked young and beautiful, but she wasn't. She was powerful, and she was waiting."_

 _"For Arthur?"_

 _"For someone…"_

 _"She didn't see you, did she?"_

 _"Old man, don't make me laugh – did she see me?!"_

 _"No need to call me that. My name is Gaius."_

 _"Nice to meet you, Gaius. I'm glad Arthur has others to take care of him."_

 _"Hm. There, it's ready. We just need to-"_

 _"Needs a touch of magic, too, don't you think? There's magic mixed with the poison."_

 _"What are you – oh. I didn't notice that. I suppose… I didn't have time to notice that. Which is probably a very good thing, for Arthur. It might have been days, otherwise, before…"_

The potion smelled of hay and sunflowers. Arthur's head was lifted; there was liquid at his lips and he opened his mouth to swallow willingly. It was cool, sliding down his throat, tingling through his veins, flushing the winding pain right out through his skin in a wave of sweat.

Then Arthur could groan, and roll to his side, and open his eyes.

Merlin was frowning in concentration, hovering over Gaius' shoulder as he sat next to Arthur. The old physician cocked an eyebrow, and tilted his head toward the _liftlic_.

"Care to explain, sire?"

Arthur sighed and closed his eyes again. Maybe after he slept for a while, he'd feel like telling Gaius that story. No need to say goodbye to Merlin, if he was never very far away…

* * *

 **1.7** _(Gates of Avalon)_

Arthur had never felt this way about anyone before. Sophia was soft and gentle and enchanting… literally, enchanting…

He might not have minded, except that her eyes burned bright red, rather than the gold of magic he publicly resisted and privately explored. That color red, dangerous as fresh blood, inhuman in a malevolent way, sent a flood of dread through him like poison.

Like poison… like poison…

 _Merlin, help_ , as his thoughts and soul submerged.

He was drowning. Sinking slowly, silt oozing into his chainmail, his scarlet cloak swirling in the water like blood. Though his eyes were closed, he could see it. Water lapped at his lips and teased his nostrils with the air he could not have…

But then the water parted, and the scent of hay and sunflowers caressed his face. He breathed – and opened his eyes.

He was underwater – everything around him distorted, the sunlight fractured on the surface less than five feet above him as he lay in the mud. A shadow moved between it and him-

Sapphire eyes gleamed. Full lips smiled, pressed together against the insistence of the water around them. Black hair waved gently wild in the water-current-

Arthur's pulse spiked. How was an air-spirit underwater?

His entire body convulsed to get his feet under him, pushing his weight upward to standing in the water, head and chest above the surface to breathe on his own – he must have closed his eyes against the silt-particles suspended in the lake; Merlin was gone when he opened them again, his whole body heaving for air.

"Father!" Sophia stood right in front of him, crimson-eyed and gaping in shock, ripples of the water lapping at her neck. Aulfric postured on the shore, his voice stentorian as he shouted some language Arthur didn't recognize.

"Get off – don't touch me!" He shoved Sophia's hands away as they fluttered to land on him like agitated bats, and began to slosh his way to shore, furious enough to spit.

Abruptly the temperature of the water dropped, nearly to freezing, congealing around his legs like cold gravy. He paused out of necessity and looked back – ephemeral blue light illuminated the surface of the lake, and the forest beyond was a blur of dark green-black.

The blue lights danced closer, slower – and he saw that they were tiny beings, with fangs and enormous ears and elongated feet that they dipped in the lake. The nearest one was wearing a sort of crown, and Arthur's heart went as cold and slow as the water. He couldn't feel his fingers; he had no idea if there was a sword at his belt or not.

Not that it would do any good…

These were the people whose stories he'd feared, trespassing into Merlin's wood. The ones who'd fill their bargains with loopholes, and require souls in payment, and kidnap a person for a hundred years during a single unwary nap. The faeries. The _sidhe_.

"We were promised…" Such a gravelly voice from such a tiny, delicate thing sent a shudder of revulsion up Arthur's back. "The soul of the greatest prince of all, in return for passage to immortality for the beloved daughter."

"Father?" Sophia shouted from further into the lake, and began to splash her way toward Arthur.

"Here he is – I delivered!" Aulfric protested, from the shore.

"Who is it then, that interferes with the ceremony?" the _sidhe_ king wondered.

A hand touched Arthur's shoulder softly, and he nearly toppled over in the knee-deep water again, startling in surprise. When he turned Merlin was smiling kindly into his eyes, bare feet not quite touching the surface of the lake, hand still extended, and he ignored the others to speak to Arthur alone.

"Come."

Arthur never was so glad to take a person's hand. Warmth spread down his arm from the contact, down his legs, and he was able to swish through the last waves to the shore, Merlin wafting along at his side.

"A _liftlic_?" the _sidhe_ king rasped, sounding incredulous.

"My lord, I protest!" Aulfric bleated. "My daughter's enchantment on the prince-"

Sophia had almost reached him, her sodden dress dragging unattractively at her figure, turning her from an angel into a bog-ghost.

"My claim supersedes theirs," Merlin said softly, angled toward Arthur but facing the hovering _sidhe_ -king. His hair wasn't even wet – he didn't look like he'd been touched by the water at all. "Ours is an older and more binding contract. They can't use him. You can't have him."

Arthur felt like smothering his friend in an embrace, but he was almost afraid to move. He alone was mortal; they three were not. All his authority and skill meant nothing here.

Hells, was he glad he hadn't broken that staff.

"I can't have him?" the king demanded, subtly threatening.

Merlin's smile was small and impish. "Perhaps when my debt is paid and our bond is broken, I can bring him to you myself?"

What? Arthur began to rethink his relief and gratitude.

The wings were nearly invisible behind the king, but the edges showed when he twisted his blue body with skepticism. "You are immortal – you have no need to buy entrance to Avalon."

"That is true." Merlin gave a little bow – of acquiescence and respect, not fealty.

"My lord, we are your kin!" Aulfric interrupted, gesturing between himself and Sophia. "How can you listen to such a-"

"Silence!" the _sidhe_ king hissed, giving his feet a flick of a kick that spoke to Arthur of deadly impatience. "You were sentenced to mortality for the crime of murdering your kin. Your offered recompense cannot be claimed by you, and is therefore rejected by us. Be thankful I do not take her soul instead, and begone!"

He made a shoo-ing gesture at them; Aulfric curled protectively toward Sophia, and both of them disappeared.

Arthur took the opportunity to lean toward Merlin's ear and murmur, "Can we get the hell out of here?"

Merlin made a reassuring motion with one hand, his attention remaining upon the nearest of the tiny blue _sidhe_ , the king.

"And your name, _liflic_?" the _sidhe_ said imperiously in his scratchy-dangerous voice.

"I am Merlin."

"Hm. I cannot deny, we have noted Arthur Pendragon, and we crave his presence in Avalon."

Chills slithered down Arthur's spine, but Merlin moved his hand inches only to rest on Arthur's forearm, and he was warmed again. "As I said," his voice was mild, and rock-certain. "When my debt is paid, and our bond broken, I can bring his soul to Avalon. And no, not in payment for immortality, but sharing my own with him."

Wait – what?

"Once," the _sidhe_ king hissed. " _And_ future?"

Merlin gave the same little saucy-formal bow. "Even so."

" _Liftlic_ , you presume."

Careless shrug of gossamer-butterfly shoulders. "Then I apologize, and we will withdraw."

His hand on Arthur's arm pressed lightly, and Arthur began to back away from the _sidhe_ king, well aware that he should not turn his back. At some point he would want to avert his eyes, though, because watching such things disappear from sight was said to have ominous consequences, also. If you walk away, don't look back. If you back away, don't look at all.

He was aware, though, that the rest of the minute blue lights skittered about in a hazy-anxious cloud for a moment. And Merlin was moving with him, rather than disappearing to dance the air-currents of the world.

"Wait."

They paused. Arthur wasn't sure whether to be pleased or nervous. He didn't actually understand what Merlin was bargaining for.

"If he comes to us freely, if the both of you come to us freely, you may both remain. Freely."

"Thank you, my lord," Merlin said, his tone respectful and betraying nothing of triumph or defeat for Arthur to base any guesses upon. "It may be many long years, as the humans reckon them…"

"That is all one to us, you know that. Farewell, Merlin."

"Til then, Your Majesty."

The blue glow faded, and Arthur was left with Merlin in the darkening forest. What time was it? What day was it? He realized he was soaking wet, wearing chainmail, and had no idea how far from the citadel he was. Merlin flitted while he slogged.

Irritably, he said, "So you've sold my soul, then?"

"Of course not, Arthur. Your soul isn't mine to bargain – rather, I am yours. I only got the _sidhe_ -king to agree to allow you to join the immortals in Avalon when you die."

"You mean," Arthur said slowly, trying not to trip over vines that twined his ankles and sprang away from Merlin's, "that if I decide to break that staff, I'm going to die and they get my soul?"

"Please don't break the staff," Merlin said, the plea velvet-strong and thrumming with emotion. "I want to help you when you need me. And when you're done, and not even I can save your life one last time, then we go as comrades into a never-ending paradise. Forever, or for a while… beyond the veil, the souls of men can never return, but from Avalon… someday, it may be. You my master and I your happy servant, through the ages."

"Someday I'd come back to live another life?" Arthur said incredulously.

Merlin shrugged, giving a self-conscious little skip. "Both of us?"

"That's…" Arthur struggled with words that were too heavy and ill-defined to describe his feelings. "Something to think about, that's for sure."

Merlin flashed him a grin, curling his fingers around the back of Arthur's arm. "Come on, I'll walk you home."

Hay and sunflowers blew in Arthur's face, and his feet stumbled over the cobblestones just outside the citadel's open gates, the guards alerting to his sole presence. Another gust blew his cloak around one shoulder – clean and dry, like the rest of him.

It seemed to him like _he_ might be the one who owed a debt.

* * *

 **1.9** _(Excalibur)_

Seated on the cold hearth in his chambers, Arthur bent over his knees, eyes squeezed shut, arms slowly losing sensation in a tight band around his shins. Misery threatened to pull him apart – radiating hotly from a place just below his breastbone.

Heartache was the least of it. Loss and regret only half. Responsibility and all that came with it would press him til he couldn't breathe, like a boulder on his chest that couldn't be displaced.

He was king.

Expected, for all his life, but not like this. Not so abruptly and violently. Not while he'd been sleeping and his father fought the challenge for him – and lost. And the challenger dead also – long dead, according to Gaius.

Whom he could no longer trust.

His heart pulsed with loneliness, and another sob strangled him.

A different sort of weight settled across his shoulder-blades, a strong and comradely arm, coaxing him to lean, to rest – and without bothering to open his eyes to identify the person who'd dared enter his private sanctum to disturb and assuage his grief, he obeyed.

His weight was supported. His forehead found the crook of someone's neck, and the warmth and presence of a strong lean flank against his side – silent and unassuming – released his tears.

He wept for what he'd never had. He wept for what never would be. He wept with a child's self-pity, with a man's knowledge of his own imperfection and the consequences of his mistakes that his people would bear. It exhausted him, and cleansed him.

And only then did he wonder _who_. Not Gaius. Not Leon, or any of the others – not even Gwen.

Arthur inhaled hay and sunflowers, and relaxed still further on the exhale. Oh, of course. Maybe it was his loneliness, more than any conscious word, that had called out – and this one would understand loneliness.

Merlin's fingers were slowly combing and petting his hair, and it was soothing. He said in a low voice that held no merriment at all, "What happened?"

Arthur sighed. Reached to wipe his eyes, and straightened away from Merlin's arm and fingers, speaking in awkward, jerky sentences with long pauses. "My father was killed this afternoon. A stranger came, three days ago. Wanted a duel, to the death. One of my knights was quicker – and the second day, my father held me back from taking the repeated challenge. Someone else died, and today… Today my father fought and died in my place. I didn't even know it til it was over."

"And now you are king," Merlin said, with the same soft understanding.

Arthur made a sound that was almost another sob, and twitched something like a shrug. "I'm not going to be a good one. I can't be good enough. I'll never be what he was, and you know I want to change things, but there are risks with any change and people will be hurt and everyone will doubt me and question me, and that might weaken the kingdom and there might be wars…"

Merlin exhaled through his teeth, not really a shushing noise, something unusual but still calming. He breathed deeply and slowly, and Arthur found himself matching those breaths. He wiped his eyes clear again and no more tears blurred his vision. Another thought occurred to him and he glanced down at his plain white shirtsleeve, rubbing his chest and checking his hand – but no, Merlin's orange iridescence didn't rub off.

The liftlic rose from the hearth and flitted about the room, all gangly elbows and knees when he was moving at a human's pace. He straightened the bedclothes with a wave and a ripple; he cleared the table – and the floor – of dishes with a sweep and a couple of deft scoops with his bare foot and quick catches. He tidied Arthur's strewn laundry light-hearted and fleet-footed, and it occurred to Arthur that he might take a lesson in methods of improving and organizing his kingdom.

Merlin then disappeared for a single instant, to reappear seated once again on the hearth beside Arthur before he had a chance to react. He held out Arthur's goblet, brimming with a deep-golden liquid.

"Drink this," he said. "It'll be better for you than the wine you've got here."

Arthur didn't question, only sipped. It was like drinking honeyed steam – warm and viscous, but not cloying. It trailed heat down his throat, curled around his heart, dissipated through his blood outward toward fingers and toes, lapping lassitude through him like a steamy fragrant bath for the inside of his body, rinsing him clean and free without rising to fog his head at all.

"Mmm," he managed.

"Isn't it?" Merlin answered with a quirk of a smile. "One more sip, Arthur – you'll feel better, I promise."

He was right. Arthur had no idea what was in the drink, but it clarified thoughts and lulled physical tension til it didn't seem to matter anymore. The ache eased, and the sorrow was gentle around his heart, and he drank half the cup in slow swallows. Merlin said nothing, just sat and breathed and the loneliness was gone and the doubt was gone. A hard knot in the center of his chest was teased open by the liquid warmth and Arthur began to speak, unself-consciously, stories of his childhood, memories of his father, dreams he used to have that got lost in the pace of hard work.

And Merlin understood, even if he wasn't human. Now and then he filled a pause with some observation he'd made, some memory of his own that was alien to Arthur's experience – yet somehow exactly the same.

The knock on the door was unexpected, but Arthur felt no shock or surprise – or when it creaked ajar and it was Gwen's voice that intruded.

"My lord? May I come in? Lady Morgana sent me to see that you were all right, but I heard voices…"

Arthur looked at Merlin, who raised his eyebrows to express interest and curiosity – but willingness to bow to Arthur's wishes, too, a readiness to disappear in a sprint to the wind.

He opened his mouth and said, "Come on in, Gwen. There's someone I would like you to meet."

* * *

 **2.3** _(Nightmare Begins)_

" _Merlin_?... Oh, there you are."

"You called and I answered, beloved lord and mas-"

"Don't call me that, I told you."

"Okay, Arthur… so you needed me?"

"Not really _me_ … The thing is, there was a disturbance earlier this evening. No danger, I don't think, but Morgana is pretty shaken. Morgana is-"

"Your father's ward. A Seer, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yeah… She has magic, then, you can tell? It's for sure?"  
"Why?"

"My father hated magic. You know that. There was a lot of death, and a lot of fear, the whole time we were growing up, and Morgana still feels… like we're all going to think she's some kind of monster, for having it. No offense."

"Why should I be offended?"

"Right, then… never mind. But the thing is, I can ease off on the consequences for magic-users who are caught, but I can't change the law yet, I've only been king for eight months and I don't have the support I need on the council or among the knights. Things are changing, but gradually, and Morgana's not very good at patience or at listening to me, so I thought… maybe… if you talked to her?"

"Does she know about me?"

"I never said. And I don't think Gwen ever told anyone about meeting you, though I'm pretty sure she talked to Gaius, just for… information about your kind. Tell Morgana I sent you, so she won't be frightened."

"Very well, sire. I'll tell her magic is beautiful and hers is a gift and waiting is worth it and you're already an excellent king and it won't be long til everyone can see that and trust you to make the right decisions and support your choices-"

"Yes, all right, you don't have to… rabbit on like that."

"I like making you turn that shade of red, Master."

"Merlin!"

"All right, I'm going…"

"Merlin!"

"What?"

"Don't just – appear, in her bedchamber. Make sure you knock on the door first and wait for her to open it and invite you in."

"Because that's polite for females?"

"Because that's polite for _humans_."

"Does that mean I'm being rude every time I answer your call without going through the door first?"

"Don't look so pleased about it. And Merlin… good luck."

* * *

 **Epilogue**

It was rare that Arthur was the only one standing at the Table, around which sat his most trusted friends and advisors, his wife and queen, and her onetime mistress. But he had an announcement to make that would affect the whole kingdom as well as allies and enemies, and he had to begin with these select friends. He'd need their comprehension and acceptance before they could move forward with public knowledge.

He sent his gaze questing the circle, one to the next, slowly and surely, without speaking – all met his gaze without disturbing his silence. Beginning with Lancelot at his left, and ending with Morgana beside Guinevere on his right, both of whom knew what he planned today.

"I think all of you have anticipated this day for a long time," he began contemplatively. "Some, longer than others. Some of you have been with me since before the release of the Dragon. Through the Troll Invasion… and the chaos that was the signing of the Albion Accords."

He paused, and Gwaine punched Percival's shoulder in some private celebration of remembered triumph; Percival ignored him.

"Some of you have suspected, some of you have guessed – and I'm quite sure that some of you bribed or blackmailed those who knew for privileged information." Arthur ignored the glance that passed from Elyan to Guinevere, though he couldn't quite keep the quirk from the corner of his mouth. It wasn't important; the newest of his knights – and his brother-in-law – was exceedingly discreet. "Some of you are also guilty of the same crimes as I am – of making use of magical defense against our enemies."

Tristan smothered a sudden snort behind his hand; Isolde blinked innocent serenity from his side.

"But this day – _this day_ , Camelot is set to officially proclaim the revocation of the Ban on magic. A recognition of the rights of citizenship of all magic-users, their protection from prejudicial harm, and a welcome of all such who wish to come or return to Camelot from other kingdoms."

Arthur took a deep breath; no one said anything because they'd all discussed this goal for months, and all were in concert in striving towards it. It was a relief. A triumph.

"Therefore, in the interests of clarity and honesty, I'm going to introduce you all to the person you might have suspected or guessed at, our magical aid in so many endeavors. Our good luck and guardian angel. He is a _liftlic_ , an air-spirit, and I want each of you especially to trust that his loyalty and integrity is far above question."

Gwen's smile threatened to burst beyond her wide cheeks. Morgana was smirking around the table, Gaius' eyebrow was stern, and Gwaine sat up straight from his slouch in expectation.

Arthur said, "Merlin?"

The touch of a draft was scented with hay and sunflowers, and a warm presence breathed at his shoulder.

"Yes, Master?" Merlin said breezily. Gwen giggled.

Arthur turned to lay his hand on Merlin's bare glimmering-orange shoulder, to demonstrate to his most trusted that they could trust this being of magic, also. But Merlin already rested one forearm over the back of Lancelot's chair, his other hand raised nonchalantly to his hip over the waistband of the hide trousers that clung to the shape of his form.

"Hello, Merlin," Isolde said in her dusky, suggestive voice.

She wasn't the only one. Leon gave a nearly-formal salute, and Gwaine tossed off a casual, "Mate…"

Merlin sent a mischievous smile around the table, and swayed close to Arthur to murmur, "They all promised to act _surprised_ when you introduced me."

Arthur was disgruntled, a bit. "I had a speech."

"I know, I heard. I helped you write it, remember." Merlin's eyes widened playfully at Arthur's glare. " _Before_ I met Tristan. And those four down there."

Arthur rolled his eyes and faced the curve of the table again, most of his friends grinning or outright laughing. "So… there you have it. My grand secret that wasn't a secret. All of my success is due to my command of this magical creature-"

"That's not true," Merlin protested. "What I did was details, Arthur. This is your kingdom, and your reign, and you've earned the hearts of everyone at this table, all on your own."

"I'll drink to that," Gwaine said suddenly, raising the goblet that was in front of him, as in front of everyone. Because Arthur had planned a toast as well, and of course he couldn't be allowed to control even one aspect of this meeting.

"Oh, wait!" Merlin said excitedly. He _flickered_ – Gwaine flinched reactively, and several people around the table exclaimed over the fact that the crimson-tinted wine in every goblet was now clear-golden.

Merlin beamed at Arthur. "No one else has had _this_ but you, Arthur. But we should share it with them, now, don't you think?"

Arthur couldn't quite hold back his smile. It had occurred to him, when he'd thought about the toast, but he usually abstained from making frivolous requests of his unusual servant. "What did you do with the wine?"

Sapphire-blue innocence. "I drank it, of course. Couldn't let it go to waste, could I?"

Someone – Tristan – groaned an obscenity. "A drunk _liflic_ , now what?"

"He doesn't look drunk – is it possible for an air-spirit to get drunk? I'm taking you to the tavern tonight to find out," Gwaine promised.

"Shut up, all of you," Arthur ordered. "Raise your hands and chalices and join me in drinking to an extraordinary friend of Camelot and one of the best men I've ever known – Merlin."

"Oh, no," Merlin's immediate protest arrested the most eager to drink in mid-gesture. "Not to me. To all of us. To Camelot. And to a golden beginning."

"I'll drink to that?" Gwaine repeated, eagerly impatient.

"You'll drink to anything," Percival said.

Arthur gave a nod that released the toast, and everyone drank – exclaimed, and kept drinking whatever it was that Merlin brought from wherever he brought it.

Merlin put his hand on Arthur's shoulder – chainmail and cloak – and bent close to say into Arthur's ear, "I'm not lonely anymore. Not ever. Maybe you won't believe me, but what you've done for me is far more valuable than anything I could ever do for you. Thank you."

Arthur's grin felt vibrant; his whole life felt vibrant. And when his time was come, he knew that he need not fear death, because his friend would be with him, through and beyond to whatever adventure waiting them, in and past Avalon.

 **A/N: Okay, that felt like kind of a stupid ending to me, but I wasn't feeling particularly brilliant or witty when I wrote it. If you want to message me with quippy one-liners, I may choose one and upload it…**


	10. Everything a Man Could Want

**A/N: Warning for suicidal themes/thoughts.**

 **Everything a Man Could Want**

 _They say that Richard Cory owns one half of this whole town_

 _With political connections to spread his wealth around_

 _Born into society, a banker's only child_

 _He had everything a man could want – power, grace and style_

 _But I work in his factory,_

 _And I curse the life I'm living, and I curse my poverty_

 _And I wish that I could be… Richard Cory._

 _Papers print his pictures almost everywhere he goes_

 _Richard Cory at the opera, Richard Cory at a show_

 _And the rumors of his parties and the orgies on his yacht_

 _Heart and soul he must be happy, with everything he's got_

 _He freely gave to charity, he had the common touch_

 _They were grateful for his patronage, and they thanked him very much_

 _So my mind was filled with wonder when the evening headlines read,_

' _Richard Cory went home last night… and put a bullet through his head.'_

 _But I work in his factory,_

 _And I curse the life I'm living, and I curse my poverty_

 _And I wish that I could be… Richard Cory_

~ "Richard Cory", Simon and Garfunkel

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

He bounced gently on the side of the guest bed in the Dubois chamber, the rhythm at odds with the shifting techno beat from the party downstairs, staring at the small white bottle with the blue label in his hand. With only the bedside lamp on, it took concentration to read the black words on the white part of the bottle, and he wasn't exactly clear-headed tonight, thanks to Jack and José, among others. He didn't always keep track.

One soft-gel per dose. Non-habit-forming. Good to know.

He bounced again, considering remotely the fact that he was lucky no one from the party was using this room. Then again, it was third-floor. Couples rarely ascended past the second-floor rooms of the mansion, and he locked the doors of the rooms he knew his father would be furious to have violated.

Surely they didn't keep guest bedrooms stocked with sleeping pills, in addition to every hotel toiletry imaginable? Maybe it was part of Morgana's stash.

Gentle bounce. It wasn't a mattress with springs, and all he did was sink into the memory foam, causing his phone to slide over the coverlet, down into his depression to tap against his thigh.

His father could dry-swallow painkillers. That had always been one of the worst sort of reprimands, in his opinion. Right in the middle of a conversation – read argument – he'd pull out his own tiny bottle, pop the lid, tap a couple out and toss them in his mouth to be swallowed, the implication unmistakeable. _What a headache you are_ …

He would have to get a glass of water from the bathroom. Should've thought of that when he was in there puking up hors d'oeuvres and booze, minutes ago.

Take it with the drink? He'd been handed the tall skinny glass clinking with ice by one of the servers in the game room – he was sure she was only wearing the one garment and it was probably one that could fit inside his fist, crumpled up. Painkillers or sleeping pills, though?

Because he was done. He was _done_.

Weary of _everything_ , but still staring at the bottle of pills. What happens if you take more than 50mgs? How many is _too many_?

Would he fall asleep and not wake up for a week?

Or would he not wake up at all.

The techno beat changed from hammers-on-glass to approaching-freight-train.

But wait – if he slept for a week, wouldn't he just not wake up anyway? Dehydration? What if he drank as much water as he could with the pills before he fell asleep… and then piss himself and the whole bed with its annoying sponginess. _That_ would be attractive for whoever found him. And run the risk of breaking one of Uther's cardinal rules. No bad press.

His body pressed gradually lower into the mattress, and his phone slid toward his knee, finding no friction against the expensive fabric of his trousers.

He picked it up and thumbed it on. Google ask-a-question. Hey Jeeves, what happens if I take too many sleeping pills?

Sleep Better At Night, Drug-Free! Fall Asleep Faster And Stay Asleep Longer So You Can Wake Up Feeling Refreshed. Understand Your Insomnia. Common and Potentially Harmful Side Effects.

 _Generally, sleeping pills do not often cause lethal overdose when taken alone…_

What about with half a liter of mixed alcohol?

Ask A Doctor: Side Effects.

He huffed and rubbed his eye with a knuckle of the hand holding the bottle – the soft-gels nestled together suggestively.

What happens when I take – he did the math in his head – 1600mgs of… he turned the bottle. Diphenhydramine HCl.

Drug Overdose. Symptoms, Reasons, Risk factors, First Aid… Call Poison Control Center.

Oh, poison control. That might be good, they were a reputable source of information. He tapped the screen twice and put it on speaker so he wouldn't have to lift the phone to his ear.

 _All pleasantries aside, I'm curious about the answer to my question. What happens if you take 1600 milligrams of diphenhydramine hydro-chloride? That's how you pronounce it, right? That's what capital-H-Capital-C-lowercase-L stands for, right?_

 _Sir, have you or anyone near you ingested-_

 _No, no one's actually ingested anything, I'm just wondering. What happens. Could you take, say six of them and sleep for seventy-two hours? Would you wake up to pee and eat, or not? At what point would you worry about permanent damage to, say, your brain or your liver? And then wouldn't it be easier simply to take half a dozen more and be unaware of the consequences? Or would it be better to take too many milligrams of acetaminophen instead?_

 _Sir, we are just as interested in answering the question as you are – could you hold please for a moment?_

He rolled his eyes. You'd think professionals would know. Isn't that what the website said, staffed with pharmacists and so on? Over another recorded opening greeting, _Thank you for calling_ , he said aimlessly, "It's not like it's that big of a deal. I was just curious, you know…"

… _Be with you in a moment._

Another voice came on the line, unhurried and relaxed. "Hey, I'm glad you called. What's on your mind tonight?"

 _Trying not to have anything on my mind tonight_. He realized he'd said that out loud when the other person – a young man, by the sound of it - gave a soft, easy laugh that reached through the invisible connection.

"I hear you. Anything in particular?"

"Well, I called about these sleeping pills." He repeated the dosage and type. "I wanted to know what happens when I take six or eight or all of them."

A moment of silence that wasn't silence, it was the soft clatter of a keyboard in use, not unlike the gel-pills in his bottle. He tipped it, listening to both sounds as the baseline of the downstairs music thumped irritatingly suggestive of horizontal partying. He couldn't help envisioning thrusting hips and spilling drinks…

"Huh. Modern sleeping aids are safer than their predecessors. Fatal doses differ based on the type… and OTC meds are a helluva lot safer than prescription stuff. But um, it talks about excessive lethargy and abdominal pain and breathing irregularity and seizures, too… What… were you thinking would happen if you took six or eight? Or all of them?"

"Trying _not_ to think, remember? Keep up," he told the voice.

Which didn't crackle with forming ice, or inform him he was going to be hold-ed to someone else to deal with. "Why don't you start at the beginning?"

He couldn't help it. It popped out of the depths of his psyche, some sepia-tinted childhood photo, some last-minute replacement babysitter trying to amuse and distract with out-of-the-box thinking, and old videos.

"A very good place to start?" he snarked.

The person the voice belonged to caught the reference, which was mildly surprising. "Well… I suppose that's good for teaching children to sing. Neither of us are Julie Andrews. And adulthood can be… a lot more complicated than eight notes of a musical scale."

"What are you, a shrink?" he said confusedly. "Thought you all were supposed to have degrees in chemistry or pharmacology or something."

"I'm… still in school. Studying for psychology? Headed for a counselor's certificate? I'd ask you how I'm doing, but this is your quarter-and-dime. We're talking about you."

"They pay you to sit and listen?" he said skeptically.

"They don't pay me. Volunteer. And we can take as much time as you like. So, shoot."

Huh. He let his knees bend, sliding him off the dented side of the bed onto the plush carpet floor. Someone who didn't know him. Who didn't want anything from him. Wasn't getting paid, was only offering to… listen.

"No one ever listens to me," he said softly. He hadn't said that since he was twelve, and Uther had slapped his face for raising his voice, and told him, _You have nothing to say that's worth listening to._

His mind was still half-stuck on the old loop he never realized he had. _When you read, you begin with A-B-C…_

"It's not A-B-C," he said, staring blindly at some watercolor masterpiece framed and hung on the wall of a room Uther paid to keep immaculate, and no one ever used. "It's more like, W-T-F. Like you face-planted on your keyboard from exhaustion or frustration, or… the time your sister changed your settings to Cyrillic. Or Mandarin. And locked them." Just before that big merger-meeting with Concord Bank and Trust.

"You have a sister? Tell me about her."

Morgana. He didn't say the name aloud, though. Even half-inebriated, he knew the rules.

"She's… a freaking force of nature. A speeding freight train. A speeding bullet. She's just like my father and – on purpose, I think? Like she decided when she was a little kid that she was going to _be_ him, only better. Cuz women are inherently better than men, obviously."

There was a chuckle of shared humor and gender. "Older or younger?"

"Older. You'd think that would make her softer or more sympathetic, less antagonistic, wouldn't you? Since our moms died…"

"Sorry – your moms?"

"Oh, we're half-siblings. Same dad, different moms. Sometimes I wonder if they died to get away from our dad. Because, pre-nup. Divorce wasn't an option." He paused, tilting his head back against the mattress and shifting his tailbone on the carpet. "That probably sounds like a horrible thing to say."

"You're allowed," the voice said mildly. "To me, you're allowed to say anything."

He immediately said something he'd never been allowed to say, as a child. And even if he was the cool younger generation, suave and sophisticated was more to his father's taste than rebellious and disaffected.

"And…" Maybe the voice struggled with disconcertion, or with amusement, to respond like a sympathetic listener. "How did that feel?"

He couldn't help it – he started to laugh. When a terribly-appropriate response became terribly inappropriate. He snickered – he giggled – how long had it been since…

Tears were running down his face, and the sounds he was making weren't mirthful anymore. "Damn. Sorry, it's just – it feels like a really long time since I…"

"Don't apologize, it's fine. Since you what?"

"Since I laughed." He was astonished these words were coming out of his mouth. He never allowed these sorts of words, and rarely thought the thoughts, not anymore. "Since I let go."

"Let go of what?"

He rolled his head to stare at the phone, and let the seconds tick by. Of what? Everything. Years… layers… weight, and defenses. Expectations and suppressions and obligations. Failures.

"It's too much," he whispered. "It's too much. And I can't… can't bear it. Can't get it off, can't get out from under, can't _leave_ …" Unless he swallowed the bottle. Found in – well, not his bed, but _a_ bed. Awful accident. Family in mourning. Tragedy, not scandal.

"Your sister loves you?"

 _Love you, little brother_. Tossed sarcastically with a smirk, usually after some victory of hers. _Love you too_ , he'd toss back in an effort to disguise the frustration she provoked. Did either of them mean it?

"Do you love her?"

Yes. That was what made it hurt. He'd always do what she asked – this meeting, this party, this signature on this check to this charity – but he didn't think she understood _why_ he'd always do what she asked. Just like his father never understood.

In the hopes that one day it would all add up to _enough_ for them to love him, too.

"Does she know you love her?"

When they talked, they talked schedule, and policy and expected behavior. Ever since he could remember, even in grade school when it was his father talking to both of them. She gave him orders in-between phone calls. And a genuine, _I would do anything for you Morgana because I really do love you and I want you to be_ happy _– satisfied – relaxed…_ would be met with a look of shock, and then quickly shrugged-mocked off.

"Perhaps it is the same for her, then," the voice suggested; Arthur must have been speaking at least some of his thoughts aloud. "It goes unexpressed, but she loves you. Can you imagine how she'd feel after your six or eight or all?"

"Disappointed," he said, with honest sarcasm. And Uther would be irritated, like he'd left a meeting at its recess, not its conclusion. Another sign of incompetence, leaving duties unfulfilled. Surrender. Quitter. No matter what they showed the press, no matter what the people believed…

"Sometimes… family isn't the best support in times of crisis. That fear of disappointing them can be quite… smothering. Tell me about your friends."

His thoughts dropped two floors down. Guest lists, official and unofficial, mailed invitations or mass-texted at the last minute. Routinely in the three-digits – anything less was hardly worth the enormous effort and expense. He could recite names to this disembodied voice for an hour and scarcely be through half his contacts. And it wasn't all, cute girl taking selfies with his phone and putting their number with a message – all boiling down to _Call me; I'll be with you for your looks and money and popularity. I'll eagerly sleep with you just to brag that I did. I'll play the adoring girlfriend so I can fly to exotic places and party on the fleet of yachts and wear the million-dollar dress plus jewels to the opera and act totally enthralled if… maybe I get to keep the bracelet? Or the earrings?_

"Um." The voice said, interpreting his silence, "What about coworkers? Classmates? Teachers or advisors?"

Please sign this nondisclosure so we can sue you when you tell a reporter – or post on your social media – that Richard Arthur Cory is having an emotional crisis.

"You still there?"

An existential question. Was he, still here.

"I wasn't kidding when I said nobody listens to me. There's no one I can talk to. It's never quiet, you know, people always asking me things, asking me _for_ things, telling me things…"

Uther and Morgana and their assistants and his own assistants and the lawyers and chairpeople of the corporation or charity. And when he spoke, it was decisions and orders. Socially? They all talked about everybody else. _Nick's new Ferrari, Sally's new boob job, and did you hear that the representative from the third district was caught with enough oxy to be charged with distribution and not one but two prostitutes, of different genders my dear, or so I hear. Snigger… who even knows these days…_

"You don't enjoy your work?"

He allowed himself to tip sideways on the carpet, laying the phone next to him and relaxing onto his back. The ceiling was vaulted and paved – did one say paved for a ceiling? – with patterned tiles of some sort, painted white.

"That's a loaded question," he said. "There's times I think I love the work."

Given a genuine challenge by the supervisors, the low-level, self-conscious, ingratiating minions, _this is our problem and we can't see a solution_. Being creative with the numbers – juggling or introducing some fourth- and fifth-party bartering, or even… the look in the eyes of the kids in the cancer ward that year their Santa fell through and he was tasked with finding a new one an hour before the celebration – massive, televised live on three networks – and he'd gone dressed in a fluffy white beard and red-velvet beer gut.

And in the morning, both Uther and Morgana had reamed him for not making a personal appearance because no one had recognized him, not even his family.

"It's me," he said, turning his head on the carpet to address his phone. "It's all me, of course. I'm not… misanthropic enough to think, I'm not surrounded by decent friendly people _daily_ , who'd give their kidney to a friend who needed it, to say nothing of the shirt off their back. It's just me. Everywhere I go, there I am. And when people look at me, that's all they see. Me."

"Hm… What do you think you'd like to do about that?"

"Sleeping pills," he said immediately. "Just – oblivion. For a few days. A week, maybe. No one asking me for anything, no one telling me what to do…"

"A vacation?" the voice suggested hopefully.

He snorted. That was even worse. The ordinary in his life made local headlines – the extraordinary hit the internet and sometimes went viral. Vacations were scrutinized for scandal, and he was aware it could be cleverly manufactured for the tabloids.

But maybe, if he could put on a pair of old sneakers and jeans with holes in them and drive a rusted Ford to one coast or another wearing a ballcap and sunglasses and blend in, find a town where their own local news was more important to them than him, and just… sit. Under a picnic table umbrella with the sound of the waves and someone's radio, or in an old smelly bar where the other patrons ignored him to argue about sports teams…

Unless he stole a beater pickup and robbed one of his own charities for the clothing, it would never work. He didn't know anyone who'd loan him old, nondescript clothes or car and keep it quiet. And any attempt to procure those things would be met with public curiosity – speculation – attention.

"Not really an option," he sighed.

And the other route – take any of the cars, the jet, the boats, seclude himself forcibly in some resort penthouse, would only last as long as it took either of his relations to get there and reprimand him for selfishness. What were you thinking! Responsibilities shirked! Finances wasted!

Buy a new identity. Buy an island and make a law banning everyone from its shores… _Retire_.

It wasn't to be thought of. After his father's death Morgana would be twice as bad. And before his father's death, he'd want to see Arthur well-started on a family of his own to tyrannize in his turn, which required him to choose one of these socialites to propose both marriage and family to… The future tunneled away, bright spot diminishing in clarity and size til all around him yawned dim and dark and oppressive.

"Maybe a re-focus, then. If you don't think that trying to speak to your family about the way you feel-"

"Pushy much?" he interrupted. Not rudely – just tiredly.

Silence.

"Sorry," said the voice, sounding sheepish. "I get ahead of myself sometimes. Rush toward solutions. I want to help. I… I want to know I'm helping, and so often these conversation are just, getting stuff off your chest. Verbalization helps of course, but that's just the first step, and I… don't often know that any other steps have been taken."

"These conversations?" he said. "People call Poison Control to complain about their lives often?"

"Ah…"

He got it a second before the voice said. That secondary phone number, dialed by the first operator from Poison Control, and he'd said…

"This isn't Poison Control? Who did you think you called?"

"Who did I call?" he said, his position on the floor and the time of night and the alcohol his system had absorbed, carrying away any consternation and leaving a fair bit of apathetic residue behind.

"We're a twenty-four-hour crisis hotline?" the voice said.

He stared at the phone. Then he stared at the ceiling. Then he humphed sardonically to himself.

"Lucky accident? You didn't mean to call us?"

"I probably couldn't have called any other number and found someone willing to _chat_ like girls for-" he raised his head, tipping his hand to see his watch. "How many hours now?" When had he made the first phone call?

"No, probably not." Comfortable silence. "Still considering those sleeping pills, or do you feel better?"

"I feel better," he said toward his phone, and was surprised to discover it was the truth.

"I'm glad." And the voice sounded sincere, which was also a surprise. A stranger cared about him for real, and not just because it was him, or because he was supposed to.

"Do you study us? Record the calls so you can improve? Get class credit?"

"No. No. And, no."

"How long have you been doing this?" he asked curiously. He felt a bit floaty-tired. Less like he was tied with seaweed at the bottom of a very heavy lake, and more like – just drifting down a ripply river. It was better than anything he could have _taken_. "Because if you were working from a script, I didn't notice. It wasn't awkward."

"There's no script. We get a little training, a little practice with someone who's had experience. Coaching."

"So this is what you do. Coax someone to spill their problems, sift through them, and… what? Recommend therapy?"

"There's a reason therapy helps. It's not only girls who have to talk, and release the internal tension of frustration and disappointment, not to mention things like grief and trauma and fear. Loss, or depression, or isolation. And then begin to brainstorm workable solutions."

Isolation. The word resonated with him, and bothered him. He was so rarely alone – yet he was always alone.

"Therapy isn't an option either," he said. Reluctantly?

It could never be anonymous; someone would find out and his father would be furious and Morgana mocking… And a professional would be paid to fix the problem ASAP, not just listen indefinitely.

"That's too bad. I'd like to make you promise me to call this number again if you start having similar thoughts and feelings, but in the end… you've got to do things for yourself, don't you, not other people. But we can help you if you let us. The number's national, but it redirects you to a local center. So we're literally, here for you."

He didn't quite believe. Experience had taught him otherwise. But he repeated the phone number showing on his screen, which wasn't the one he'd dialed for Poison Control.

"Yeah, that's us. Twenty-four-seven, remember."

"Are we done?" he said, feeling himself sink just slightly. "That's it? Pat on the head and take the bottle out of my hand and send me on my way? Yet another disaster averted! Another tally-mark on your call-center whiteboard."

Pause.

"Do you want to tell me your name?" the voice asked. "I don't know if you'll believe me, but I'll light a candle for you this week."

He jerked away from his phone, staring at it. "No, I don't want to tell you my name!" he snapped. "I thought this was supposed to be anonymous."

"It is. Only I just got the feeling… you wanted to feel like you mattered to me. Not just another phone call out of thousands."

Thousands. He swallowed.

"Do you keep track of numbers?" he asked.

"Do you want me to keep track of you?"

He considered. Would it be weird to think of some stranger, some student of psychology who went to some kind of church, thinking about him? Not him, rich boy and media darling, but _him_.

"It's… Arthur," he said, feeling self-conscious. A middle name. On record but never, to his knowledge, publicized.

"Oh," the voice said, sounding just… off.

Interested, taken aback – but _Arthur_ was an ordinary enough name, wasn't it? He'd been named after a colleague of his grandfather's, and had met at least one other – because no one named their kid _Art_. One of the hospital patients, though not one of the cancer kids.

"I suppose then you can refer to me as Merlin," the voice said, sounding cheeky in an endearing way. Like Morgana's teasing, but without the acerbic edge.

"You think you can work magic?" he scoffed.

"It is magic of a sort, isn't it? Levitation of someone's spirits? Teleportation of hope into the closed room of someone's heart? Curing the diseases of the mind with words?"

"You're taking a poetry class on the side, aren't you?" he said dryly.

"It's an elective." The voice was playfully defensive.

Merlin's voice. And he had to admit, _Merlin_ was kind of a magic word even as a pseudonym. Evocative of power and mystery – even as his own name was meant to suggest the controlling, reigning sense of power. Richard the Lionheart. King Arthur with Excalibur. Great deeds.

Only he wasn't great. Or special. He was of average attractiveness and intelligence – it was _only_ a trick of birth that he was this town's one-percent.

"Did you go to college? Take electives?"

"Yeah…" he said. Downstairs, the subtle thrum of baseline that had replaced the techno cut by half the volume and he tensed, listening.

"What did you take? What did you enjoy? What did you ever do for fun as a kid?"

Still listening within the house, he could hear voices shouting his name. He didn't move, didn't respond… and a moment later, felt rather than heard the front door slam shut with finality. Imagined rather than heard the last of those expensive engines starting to leave the drive. Maybe they thought he'd left with someone. That had happened before, though it was usually only, a ride to one of the family's other homes, or one of the apartments when he was through for the night but the party wasn't.

The house was silent. And then it began to feel odd to him that he should spend hours on the phone with a stranger. Tomorrow… What was tomorrow? Or later today, rather. It would be something, of course, and he'd be in trouble if he was late or unprepared, or exhausted enough to seem hungover.

"Listen… Merlin," he said awkwardly. "I think I'm gonna go now. Go to bed, I mean. It's late and I'm tired…"

"Yeah. Tired can be good."

"It is a good tired," he agreed, feeling stupid. Lying on the carpet on the floor of a guest room, baring even anonymously personal secrets to a student of psychology because he'd mistakenly called a suicide hotline. "I'm going to be busy tomorrow, too…"

"Always good to have a tomorrow to be busy," Merlin said. Cheerful, and no trace of disappointment or regret. And why would he? They didn't know each other.

"So. Thanks again," he said. "Good night."

"Good night," Merlin told him – and then with that unbelievable sincerity, "Good luck."

 _ **(not the end…)**_


	11. Everything 2

**A/N: Warning for suicidal themes/thoughts.**

 **Everything a Man Could Want** (part 2)

 _They say that Richard Cory owns one half of this whole town_

 _With political connections to spread his wealth around_

 _Born into society, a banker's only child_

 _He had everything a man could want – power, grace and style_

 _But I work in his factory,_

 _And I curse the life I'm living, and I curse my poverty_

 _And I wish that I could be… Richard Cory._

 _Papers print his pictures almost everywhere he goes_

 _Richard Cory at the opera, Richard Cory at a show_

 _And the rumors of his parties and the orgies on his yacht_

 _Heart and soul he must be happy, with everything he's got_

 _He freely gave to charity, he had the common touch_

 _They were grateful for his patronage, and they thanked him very much_

 _So my mind was filled with wonder when the evening headlines read,_

' _Richard Cory went home last night… and put a bullet through his head.'_

 _But I work in his factory,_

 _And I curse the life I'm living, and I curse my poverty_

 _And I wish that I could be… Richard Cory_

~ "Richard Cory", Simon and Garfunkel

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Oh my gosh," Merlin moaned, flopping in the old armchair he shared with Gwen, along with the two-bedroom-apartment entire. "I hate him so much."

"Hate who?" Gwen said, the dishwater muffling the thudding of ceramic against stainless steel because a dishwasher was a luxury they couldn't afford the space for.

"Him," Merlin said emphatically.

Gwen hummed noncommittally. "This is about the late charge on your overdue rent notice? I told you Thursday and again on Friday, we had to turn it in. You could've put your check in the envelope with mine."

Merlin groused to himself, feeling the armchair rock slightly crooked because something was wrong with its structure under the upholstery.

"You could just write your check to me, and I'd cover the full rent," Gwen continued lightly.

It was an old argument; he made a face to himself. He knew very well that if he let her let him trespass on her generosity, advantage would be taken. She'd reassure him out of overtime and odd jobs and temp work and day-hires, she'd wave away explanations and excuses and allow the I'll-pay-you-back promises to pile up. She was like the opposite of a loan shark.

"Yeah, but," he said, "then I couldn't complain about debts and deadlines." Reaching sideways, he manhandled the lever on the armchair, and wriggled and thumped his hips to get the foot-rest to spring out, with a groan and a shudder.

"Perhaps you should try petitioning again," she said. The water gurgled in the drain as she pulled the plug. "I don't think it's a bad idea at all, trying to save a few bucks on logistics because your boss is your landlord, too."

Merlin snorted. "How many thousands of people couldn't say that, too? Cory Enterprises is part or full owner of half the businesses in this city, including real estate… And if I get that catering gig, I'll technically be employed by them _twice_."

"And then there's tuition to a school where they chair the board," Gwen added, wiping her hands and maneuvering past the card table crammed between the kitchen counter and the armchair Merlin currently owned by possession. "Maybe that should factor in somewhere… Are you going to stay up?"

Merlin rubbed the corner of his eye and blinked at the clock. "Is that the time?" he said, weariness beginning to throb through his whole body. You couldn't feel that when you were moving, but once you stopped… "Yeah, I should. Midterms tomorrow and I won't get a chance to look at my notes after the early shift…"

Gwen gave him a sympathetic grimace, crossing the common area they called the living room in four slow steps and leaning against the doorway of her bedroom. "Do you have to get an A, or will a B suffice?"

Merlin did the math in his head. "Eighty-eight or above keeps the scholarship, but then I need a solid ninety-two on the final, so I'd like to have a scrap of safety net, for my peace of mind."

"Gosh I'm glad I have my degree already," Gwen said.

He made a face, knowing that _intern_ wasn't much better than _student-employee_. Then he realized she wasn't wearing scrubs, but makeup and jewelry. "You look nice – did you go out?"

"Date night," she admitted. "He was over. I made dinner."

Merlin frowned incomprehension. "Did he have to work early tomorrow morning? He didn't leave because of me coming home, did he?"

They'd agreed when they signed the lease together, one of the perks of cohabitation was getting to blame a roommate rather than owning the offense of an unpopular choice. Like a rescue-call for a blind date. Well, you see, I can't because my roommate…

"No, we kind of… got into it," Gwen said, dropping her eyes. Then reached to pull the band out of her hair, scratching her scalp as her curls tumbled free. "I go back and forth. Because when he's nice, he's really nice, you know? And if we break up for good, I'd have to start all over trying to meet someone to spend time with, and it's impossible with these twenty-hour shifts."

"Yeah," Merlin said. "I can't meet anyone either. I mean, I might have met the love of my life already, and I didn't notice because I was busy or distracted…"

"Well, you'll always have me," Gwen smiled, her cheeks bunching cheerfully.

"And we'll always have Paris," he returned, referring to her favorite sappy-romantic movie. The worst form of torture, in his opinion, and one of the reasons he didn't encourage her to dump her boyfriend, who was really nice when he was nice. Because her post-breakup rituals included ice cream they couldn't afford, and Ingrid and Humphrey on the silver screen they shared.

"Goodnight, Merlin."

" 'Night."

Her door closed and he sighed, forcing himself to reach sideways for his backpack, tucked into the corner between the wall and the side of the angled armchair. Sometimes he took his books and papers and assignments to work with him, and sometimes not. Sometimes the required breaks didn't happen for orderlies any more than they happened for nurses and doctors.

He should have some caffeine, wake sluggish nerves and brain cells. But then he wouldn't sleep til seven – and he had to leave at six o'clock for his next shift. Pulling out the Behavioral Psychology textbook, his hand encountered folded paper – the campus newsletter, free copies given out at the library where he often studied.

Allow the distraction? He lifted both to his lap, opening and turning the paper so he could see the front page beneath the fold, which he hadn't had time to look at earlier.

Some stage picture of whatever production the drama department was hosting, or… no, it was some elite club that had been called on to fill supporting roles in a professional production. _Die Fledermaus_. The secondary picture, however, had him scoffing bitterly once again.

Him.

Richard Cory, rich kid extraordinaire, spoiled brat du-every-freakin'-jour. Evidently had attended a performance, and so his picture warranted front page next to the honored players. He was dressed in a tux, slouched over the arm of a box seat toward two gorgeous females – one right next, and the other in the row behind but leaning forward. And they were the very image of eager admiration for whatever scene of the opera was current, while the playboy millionaire business-heir smirked heavy-lidded, yawn-boredom with the whole thing.

"I bet he's an ass," Merlin grumbled to himself, scrunching the paper back down into his backpack, the corner catching on the zipper that couldn't make up its mind to stick or to rip away from the fabric panel. "He looks like an ass…"

Probably those tickets cost as much as Merlin's don't-have-all-of-it-quite-yet rent. Probably a guy like that didn't have a problem in the world that he couldn't pay someone else to take care of. Not like the callers that made Merlin's heart ache all week til he went back to the call center for another week-end all-nighter.

Which reminded him, there was a candle with a particular name on it for him to light again…

Sighing, he flipped through the pages of his textbook, trying to force his mind to a more absorbent state. Test – scholarship – degree… Better job, better income… Free time to sleep. Volunteer at the call center without his body punishing him for lost sleeping hours…

Livin' the dream.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The first week was perceptibly better.

He remembered the coincidental and highly unusual phone call with incredulous fondness. Proof that he wasn't just a name and money? Or proof that those sorts of places hired people with an uncanny knack for getting along with and helping anyone. Even those who never meant to call for help.

Because he never meant to call for help. Only information. Because that was what a Cory did; you never made decisions without all the information at hand.

The second week, Uther decided that they needed to pull focus from any small-business middle-management sorts of problems to dedicate their attention to the upcoming elections. Who to support and how openly, and what issues to press and what issues would lie behind those issues, and how they should be resolved to benefit…

 _That's still months away. And I need a new foreman on the sun-room project for the children's wing in the hospital_ now.

He tried to network on his phone, searching contacts and employment websites for the perfect person, someone who could see the vision and comprehend the enormous value of the space – not monetary – and still have the steel backbone to keep the workers performing at better-than-peak capacity. The structure was done but the _details_ … The life of the room was in the details, he was assured by both architect and interior designer alike, and it was meant to be opened for use – publicly, oh-so-publicly – the first of next month.

And he had a suspicion that the assistant director of the community center downtown was skimming funds, and if he was right and it was more than occasional till-dipping, it meant an investigation into the accountant who managed nearly a dozen of their interests…

"Are we boring you?" his father said icily, standing in his place at the head of the table.

Every eye was on him. Lawyers and campaign managers and public relations consultants and Morgana next to him with sharp elbows and… he was on the wrong page of the chaptered agenda, his pen on the floor and his phone screen blank from inactivity.

He stared back into his father's imperiously-offended eyes, fighting the urge to be honest.

 _Yes. Bored out of my skull and positively antsy about issues that matter to real people. You all can handle this meeting without me, and Morgana can handle your empire when you're gone, I'm going back to the bank to pull some records and find my calculator._

"I apologize," he said neutrally. "My mind wandered momentarily."

"See that it doesn't happen again?" Cold condescension, and the plunge into a quarter-hour reiteration of the stakes of the election. Each candidate, each issue, each outcome having a dozen primary implications and hundreds of secondary potential repercussions and it felt like a sticky web of manipulation he wanted no part in.

Whether they could angle for the construction of a fourth runway at the airport. The budget for official vehicles for police and fire department as it effected public opinion or vice versa. Whether the taxes – and which ones – should be raised for street repair or educational resources or promotional marketing…

Money. Money money money makes the world go round…

Or was that supposed to be love?

The third week he went to a party thrown by the twenty-something daughter of the current mayor and wondered if this was part of their campaign for re-election. The same two or three hundred names, give or take, of the top five hundred most influential or potentially influential of the twenty-one to thirty-one age range.

He was dancing. In the dizzying flashes of candy-pink and electric-blue lights, he realized he was dancing with five girls at once, all around him, pressing in on him as he twisted and moved, surrendering his body to the beat and rhythm. Undulating against him in their barely-there shiny-sparkly-slinky-silky… The mayor's daughter was one of them.

Desire for movement faded. His limbs felt leaden and ungraceful. One of them crawled up his arm, her wardrobe threatening to malfunction, and took his earlobe in her teeth.

"Need another drink, honey? Or something stronger?"

He didn't resist.

Not til his head cleared to realize he was staring at a ceiling and the mattress of a bed was moving under his back and his legs were bent to hang off one side – uncomfortably – and someone was unzipping his trousers.

He didn't care what they were doing; he felt no arousal or embarrassment. There wasn't much feeling of anything at all.

"Is he out? Is he still out? This won't work if he's too far gone…"

The words suggested more than one other person present, and those implications roused him. He moved his hands to readjust and reclaim his zipper, ignoring the exclamations of flirty protest.

"No means no," he said aloud, unable to focus well enough to identify his company. At least enunciation was intact. "Get out."

Murmurings, sarcastic-bordering-on-shrill, and the door slammed petulantly on relative silence. He zipped and buttoned and let his hands flop to his sides again and didn't move to change his position any further, letting his eyes aimlessly roam the textured ceiling.

His life was like that. An endless expanse of sharp white points, stylishly random, and the shadow-valleys in between. He blinked and tears rolled down his temples and the music pulsed in some other room and he wanted to lock the door. He wanted to disappear.

That feeling used to stem from embarrassment. He used to care if his peers saw him in a state of impairment, doing or saying anything that could reflect badly on his family and earn his father's disapproval.

He still cared. But now the feeling rose from a place of denied peace, from frenetic activity and emotion that was all so meaningless.

Sliding off the bed, his thousand-dollar shirt rucking up his back as his knees bent to his chest, his thousand-and-a-half-dollar trousers pocket kinked to drop his phone to the floor.

His hands were trembling. He couldn't do anything _here_ , obviously. But maybe if he drove home and veered into a tree, or off a bridge… With his luck, he was sure he'd wake up to lights and voices and the screeching of metal as they pulled him free, and _pain_. And then in hospital to discover that he'd lost an eye or some fingers or had seven surgeries left to undergo and two years of therapy before he could walk with a cane for the rest of his life… Nope, too risky.

Not with a gun. Never with a gun. And with today's technology, he wasn't certain he could dispose of himself and his car and no one would believe he hadn't just disappeared. Another scandal slow to die down, but not near as bad as the truth.

He picked up his phone, activated it, and turned to his Calls list. Really he should clear that more often. Every number labeled – the numbers he didn't have saved were dialed by his assistant, like the sandwich shop he had deliver to the bank offices on a whim a few weeks ago, the first work-day after… that phone call.

The scrolling motion of names and numbers slowed and paused. The one just after Poison Control.

Calling once by accident was all right. It was amusing, even. A joke he'd tell later. Calling twice would be… _weakness_. Weakness disappointed his father and made him feel like a failure again and again and again and-

He thumbed the number. And then the green symbol to place the call.

It occurred to him that it was almost exactly three weeks after the first call. A matter of a few hours' difference.

 _Please hold for the next available counselor. Your call is very important to us. If you'd like to speak with a specialist on issues relating to veterans affairs, or sexual identity, domestic violence, substance abuse, please select 1, 2, 3…_

Huh. People had more specific problems that he would have guessed. Did that make his whatever-it-was, less important? Rich-boy angst. Spoiled-brat ennui.

"Good evening sir or ma'am, we're glad you've chosen to call us. What is the nature of the difficulty you are experiencing tonight?" It was a brisk no-nonsense female voice, and it made him think of Morgana.

"Feelings," he said. A layer of ridiculousness and almost hilarity capped the dropping pit of despair. "Nothing more than feelings… Don't you absolutely hate feelings?"

"Which feelings in particular are you struggling with tonight?"

"All of them, it feels like." He might have giggled. There might have been tears on his face.

"Maybe you could start at the beginning…"

A very good place to start.

He said, "A is for Anger. B is for Bitterness. C is for… Concern, I suppose. D is Despair. Definitely. Doubtless. E – oh, Ennui, I just thought that word, it's French for something like _sucking boredom_. F is clearly for Fu-"

"Sir, are you currently under the influence of alcohol or drugs?"

Both, probably, at this point. He said firmly, "Never. We do the influencing. We are never under influence. Is that clear?"

"Of course, sir. Are you experiencing any thoughts of harming yourself?"

He sighed into the phone. "How long have you been doing this?" Uncertain pause, so he clarified. "This, the answering of calls on this cry-for-help hotline?"

"Altogether, our cumulative expertise is over twenty years of education and experience, rest assured you will receive the very best of care… Might I recommend that you make an appointment to start seeing a therapist on a regular basis as soon as it's convenient for-"

"It's never convenient for me." The altered mood was beginning to mix and muddy to a headache rather than swirling in a feel-good kaleidoscope sensation. "Look, this was probably a mistake, anyway. It's not you, it's me, but it's over now, so…"

"If you feel like it will help you to speak to another of our counselors," the voice suggested, with an edge of tension. It wasn't really her fault, how he was feeling contrary. She was doing the best she could.

"I don't know," he answered, rubbing his face with his free hand. This was someone else's spare room, someone else's house. "I really… I don't know."

"Please allow me to transfer you to-"

"Hey," he said suddenly, his heart pounding with an odd anticipation – or maybe just struggling against his polluted bloodstream. "You got anyone there named Merlin? I talked to someone a few weeks ago said I could call him Merlin. He was cool."

Silence. Stupid, no of course that wasn't someone's real name, who would name their kid after a-

"Please remain on the line while I connect your call…"

Click. Music. Something instrumental, not classical; he didn't recognize it.

He did scramble to his feet – double-checked the state of his clothing – and let himself out of the room. Couldn't even remember how he'd gotten there, but it wasn't hard to find his way down the hall, down the great staircase curving around the entryway, and then out the door.

To various calls of his name: _Sorry. Phone call. Important. See you later_ …

Outside, the night – early morning? – air served to brace senses and clarity. He fumbled his keys from his pocket and headed across the paved courtyard for his car.

It occurred to him to be jealous of whoever Merlin was talking to. Did every one of his conversations feel like a genuine connection, or was he just that good? Or did people tell him, it's not you it's me, too?

It occurred to him that he'd talked to Merlin for hours, last time, what if the conversation he was holding for took hours?

It occurred to him that the other caller had life issues, too. Probably more important than his.

He stopped when he reached his car, the music still thumping audibly from the house – open windows, probably. And if he got in and drove away, that was it. If he stood here a minute and changed his mind, he could go back inside to the party and shrug off the attempted phone call… The thought made him want to vomit in the flowering shrubs lining the driveway.

And then – click. "Hello? I'm glad you called, what's going on tonight?"

He smiled involuntarily – how pathetic he was – before realizing. "Um. This is… Arthur, I told you my name was? We talked-"

"Like three weeks ago, yeah. So how is life treating you these days? It's been a good three weeks?"

"Life is grand, probably," he said honestly, relaxing at the thought that Merlin remembered. That he'd mattered enough for Merlin to remember. "Just… not mine. I was trying to do like you said, focus on the aspects of my work that I enjoy and it was… I wasn't _allowed_. There were other requirements on my time and I couldn't… I couldn't ever _choose_."

Thoughtful hum. "Am I mistaken, or are you at another party?"

"Another?" he asked, feeling stupidly slow.

"Last time you called. I could hear music. Like I'm hearing now. It's a good party?"

"What makes a good party?" he said, opening his car door with the chirp of a deactivated alarm and folding himself down to the driver's seat.

"One where you don't want it to end, and when it has to, you say, that was fun, let's do it again soon."

He snorted, closing the car door and inserting keys to start the engine. Tap, tap, swipe, and he could set the phone down to use his hands to drive, and the call transferred through his speakers. "In that case, I can't remember ever having been to a good party. You?"

"Not lately. Too busy."

"Classes," he remembered. "College is good for partying though, right?"

"Yeah, but – nontraditional student, that's me, so not many peers to socialize with. But birthday parties? My mom had a way of making the whole day seem like a party."

"Your mom," he said, turning out of the lantern-lit driveway and heading for the greater darkness. Whatever it was he'd taken, at least his vision was clear now and his reactions seemed normal enough. And he didn't need to go far, just to get away…

"Oh – sorry! Gosh, I'm sorry. I forgot you said yours was – I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said – because after all, Merlin had remembered without prompting. "Tell me about your mom?"

Even though it was his quarter-and-dime, again. Even though they weren't friends. That was exactly what it felt like, and he couldn't remember the last person who made him feel like this. Like he mattered. Without his name and without any exchange or expectation of money. And maybe there was requirement, Merlin had to take the call and had to satisfy his psychological needs, but it didn't sound like it. Not like the other counselor had sounded.

Merlin told him about waking up in the morning to his mom singing _Happy Birthday_. And being able to choose his own meals all day, whatever he wanted. Pancakes and hot dogs. And his mom baked angel-food and mixed homemade frosting in whatever shade they could manufacture from food coloring, and lit candles. And there would be one small gift to open, but it was usually just what he wanted.

He found a service road to pull into and put the car in Park. Turning off the engine, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes and imagined a mother whose eyes crinkled when she laughed. Who yelled when he did something stupidly dangerous, but then hugged him like there was nothing more precious in the world and she'd never let go. Someone who got up in the night to change the sheets on his bed when he was sick, to get him a large plastic tupperware bowl in case he wasn't finished vomiting and a cup of Seven-Up and tuck him in on the couch.

"She sounds great," he said into the first pause.

"Yeah, she… she was." He could hear the smile in Merlin's voice, but he cleared his throat roughly over the line, and then the verb tense was obvious.

 _Was_.

"You mean…" he began, his own throat furry with regret.

"Yeah. It's been a few years. She was sick. That's why I'm nontraditional, I had to drop out to… Oh. Hey, I'm sorry, I'm not the one supposed to be doing the talking."

"It's fine," he said, and meant it. "I think… I think about myself too much, maybe. I said last time no one listens to me, but… no one talks to me, either. I mean, people talk to me all day long but it's… not personal. Not _real_. It's work or it's gossip or it's asking favors…"

All my life. All my life. He remembered being small and awkward and realizing his friends from school asked to come to his house to play with his toys – newer and costlier than their own – not to be with him. Not because they liked _him_.

Had anyone ever liked him?

"What do I do?" he said. "How do I get out?"

"I have a feeling that the only way you can do that in a way that _lasts_ … is to be honest. With your family, with your boss, with yourself."

"But the disappointment," he whispered. "The people that depend on me. I'll let them down, it'll be like I failed…"

"Maybe it isn't so bad, to fail at something that doesn't make you happy? Then you can start again trying something that might be better. And sometimes you can learn more from failure than you do from success. How difficult would it be for someone else to replace you, do what you do that people depend on?"

Impossible for someone else to be his father's son. To make Uther proud and carry on family tradition. If Morgana had been a boy, he would be free. But she wasn't.

"If I can't get out," he said.

"Well, if you can't see any way of removing the things from your life that are bringing you this tension and pressure, how about… adding some things in, that bring you pleasure and release that stress? And I don't mean bad parties. Call in sick to those and… I don't know, go star-gazing. Set off fireworks, or go hit golf balls on a driving range. Go to a batting cage. Go to a… I don't know, go to a spa and get a massage."

They did have a masseuse on call. She was a wiry middle-aged mother who had standing appointments with Uther. But he'd never assumed he could avail himself of services. Didn't want any hint of weakness to get back to his father. But maybe some spontaneity in his personal work-outs could be good, too.

"So we chat like girls," he said. "Now we're going to discuss a spa day?" Those he knew about from Morgana, too.

Merlin sniggered. Honest-to-goodness sniggered. "Takes a man confident in his own masculinity," he said. "Next time maybe we'll discuss your love life."

He scoffed even as he recognized _next time_ gave him a warm feeling. "I don't have one."

"Me neither. Pointers? I have a female roommate who's like a sister and I think that hinders rather than helps the whole boy-meets-girl thing."

"Older or younger?" he said, grinning and remembering that bit of their earlier conversation.

"Older. Is that what it is? Everyone she knows to set me up with thinks I'm cute like their little brother? Which is the opposite of the impression you want to give someone you want to date."

He sniggered. "My sympathies."

"Really?"

"No." The pause was comfortable, and once again he thought, _I do feel better. Not everyone is shallow and opportunistic. People like this are out there, even if I'm separated from them because of who I am_ … "Hey. I should let you get back to your other calls. I feel selfish taking up your air time."

"Don't feel like that. Call if you need to. Always glad to help."

"Thanks, Merlin," he said. "I mean it."

"Good luck, Arthur."

He sat in the darkness and silence, and it felt good. It was serene, and he wasn't lonely.

And the dawn of a new day was lightening the sky when he drove home.

 _ **(not the end either…)**_


	12. Everything 3

**A/N: Warning for suicidal themes/thoughts.**

 **Everything a Man Could Want** (part 3)

 _They say that Richard Cory owns one half of this whole town_

 _With political connections to spread his wealth around_

 _Born into society, a banker's only child_

 _He had everything a man could want – power, grace and style_

 _But I work in his factory,_

 _And I curse the life I'm living, and I curse my poverty_

 _And I wish that I could be… Richard Cory._

 _Papers print his pictures almost everywhere he goes_

 _Richard Cory at the opera, Richard Cory at a show_

 _And the rumors of his parties and the orgies on his yacht_

 _Heart and soul he must be happy, with everything he's got_

 _He freely gave to charity, he had the common touch_

 _They were grateful for his patronage, and they thanked him very much_

 _So my mind was filled with wonder when the evening headlines read,_

' _Richard Cory went home last night… and put a bullet through his head.'_

 _But I work in his factory,_

 _And I curse the life I'm living, and I curse my poverty_

 _And I wish that I could be… Richard Cory_

~ "Richard Cory", Simon and Garfunkel

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin was actually looking forward to the grand opening of the sunroom on the children's wing of the oncology floor. From the glimpses he'd gotten through plastic sheeting, it was going to be an amazing space – but amazing in a fun, comfortable, kid-friendly way.

Heaven knew the poor things needed a little sun in their lives.

Gwen was home sleeping off her own twenty-hour shift, so Merlin paid special attention to asking those few of the staff who were friends with them both to take pictures for her. His phone – old and decrepit – wouldn't, and a disposable camera was going to be bad form, given the presence of the press and his need to look at least marginally competent at his job. Busy, at least.

A professional cameraman, and a blonde journalist dressed in tight red that matched her lipstick and her heels. Not live, but gathering material. Maybe for the news, maybe for the dinner later – the sponsors and donors who'd schmooze about the dining hall in the conference center, two blocks over and one block down, next to the high-rise hotel. Because the black-tie crowd wasn't coming _here_ -

And these sorts of incidents could be edited out of the official presentation.

Merlin sighed and rinsed his mop again, squeezing grayish water from grayish woolly loops. Evidently cupcakes and chemo didn't mix well.

His area of the tiled hall had been marked with yellow stand-alone caution signs, but the biohazard disinfectant water spattered a little further when he slopped the mop back onto the floor. _Just_ as someone walked past - fancy dress trousers and fancy dress shoes and Merlin was too poor and uncultured even to guess at a designer label or price tag.

"Oops," he said involuntarily. His hospital ID swung against his chest as he straightened, ready to make an effusive apology, but.

It was Him. Layered golden hair, casually wind-swept for a look that said, I can walk out of the boardroom onto the beach and still fit right in. Ice blue eyes gave Merlin a glare – _I pay people to squish things like you_ -

"Watch what you're doing!" the journalist at his side squawked reflexively, forgetting Merlin in the next moment as she stomped on in her own memorable red heeled shoes. "Mr. Cory, our audience will be curious – what makes an attractive single gentleman like yourself interested in _this_ sort of charity work-"

Sandra paused in escorting them out, and her glare was personal. Intimidating, coming as it did from nearly a foot below Merlin's eye-height. The administrator could match him for weight, however; she was built like a very capable and self-assured and feminine tank, her dark hair cut in a cap that curled slightly under her ears.

"One complaint from him gets you fired," she reminded him in a low voice. "You better hope he has other things on his mind, and forgets you exist."

She narrowed her eyes to screw her point to his sticking place, and marched double-time to catch up with the other two, her demeanor melting from stern to placating in case an extra official apology was needed. Rich boy was looking down, turning his feet like he was inspecting the damage to his shoes.

Merlin watched them out of sight, his nose twitching with the familiar scent of lemon oil and ammonia.

"Every girl wants to do him, every guy wants to be him," Sierra sighed from the nurse's station behind him. "I should also say, in this day and age – plenty of girls want to be him, and plenty of guys want to do him…"

"Not me," Merlin retorted, returning to his mopping. "Not the one nor the other."

Sierra made a noise that was contemplatively unconvinced, turning back to her own work. "What does it say about jealousy in your psychology textbooks?"

Merlin ignored her.

Out of sight, out of mind… but he'd taken the temp job with the caterer for tonight's event at the conference center. He'd have to hope that he wasn't memorable enough – or clumsy enough – to catch the rich boy's attention again. Twice in one day would be pushing his luck. Then again, he thought he could reasonably assume – knock on wood – that he wouldn't be called on to clean up vomit at the dinner tonight.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin shined his Sunday shoes with a black Sharpie over the worn spots to darken them. And snapped his bowtie into place with an elastic band because no one had ever taught him to tie a bowtie – not that he'd really had occasion to need it, before now. Not that it was _his_ occasion, anyway.

"You know, you can look up how to tie a tie on the internet," Gwen remarked, pushing open his bedroom door, which he left ajar habitually unless he needed her _not_ to come in. "You-tube videos."

"Yeah, but this is faster." He tried to flatten his hair with his fingers.

"Comb?"

He made a derogatory noise and turned. She was dressed as he was, black trousers and white collared shirt with bowtie; she also had her curly black hair in a smooth bun at the nape of her neck, and the same ballet flats on her feet that she'd been wearing to service since he met her. "We gotta go anyway," he said. "Or we'll be late."

Not late for the event. Late for the caterer's staff, who set up the buffet tables in the ballroom and arranged the serving trays on a long counter in the kitchen, ready to carry out among the guests a discreet ten minutes later. Time enough for guests to arrive, divest themselves of outer garments, begin to greet each other and _schmooze_.

Gwen got lucky; she was assigned to the buffet table. Clean small spills, monitor plates-napkins-silverware, trade out demolished platters for fresh ones.

Merlin, on the other hand, was required to balance his tray of cheesy fish paste in pastry shells with a twig of some herb garnish – was that meant to be chewed and swallowed? – and maneuver among guests without spilling. Or tripping.

After his second mostly-successful circumnavigation of the room, he fetched up next to Gwen's position at the back corner of one of the tables slightly out of breath.

"You didn't see that, did you?" he asked, referring to his stumble over a table leg – hidden by floor-length tablecloth. Two of the hors d'oeuvres had slid from his tray in their little paper cups, but he'd managed to nudge them under the table in the next step.

"See what?"

"Never mind." Mood lighting. Little battery lamps at the tables, comfortably dim everywhere else. They were meant to do the clean-up, anyone who could stay, and he'd remember which table it was.

"He's here," she added, her eyes focused past his shoulder.

"Who?" Merlin followed her gaze, but his mind caught up before his eyes did.

Richard Cory, of course. Who else? The light gleaming off smooth-combed golden hair and the slightly-crooked grin as he bent to take the jeweled hand of an elderly admirer between both of his. Merlin wondered briefly if their parents' generation had been so focused on his father, making the millions and acquiring and building the various businesses. Not to the same extent, he guessed. Damn media. Damn social media, too.

"Remind me to keep my distance," he muttered to Gwen. So far Sandra hadn't said that Merlin was being let go from the hospital over a complaint from their most important stockholder-donor-chairman… but there was always that late-rent notice to worry about, too? Would Gwen be evicted too, if he was?

"Just watch where you're putting your feet," Gwen suggested, far too amused for Merlin's liking.

"If I'm doing that, then I'm not watching where I'm going," Merlin argued, trying not to move his lips too far from the smile he hoped looked more professional than a disgruntled grimace. "Or the tray – or the people. My life insurance couldn't cover the dry cleaning bill."

Gwen tilted her head toward him. "I didn't know you had life insurance."

"I don't. Can't afford it." He offered her the serving tray. "Trade me places?"

"Well…" Gwen reached agreeably, glancing around to see if there was going to be any negative attention. "Oh!"

Merlin followed her eyes again and grimaced for real. Their employer with the caterer stood at the other end of the table, arms crossed, glaring. He'd said something at the beginning of the evening about balance and aesthetic, the girls at the tables and the men circulating the trays… He uncrossed his arms to flick his fingers peremptorily at Merlin. _Circulate!_

He muttered an expletive under his breath, plastering the professional grin on his face and ignoring Gwen's sympathetic look. He whirled, intending to begin the easiest pattern between the tables – and had to bend almost double, yanking his tray protectively into the curve of his body to avoid slamming it into a tuxedo-clad guest. Pasty pastry papers slid – teetered – almost upended as the person elbowed the tray away rudely.

Merlin bit his tongue on a sharp _Watch it!_ glancing up to catch a gleam of that golden hair, and the second stormy glare of the day.

Damn his life.

At least Richard Cory didn't seem to recognize him as the hospital orderly with the mop bucket. At least it wasn't Richard Cory's tuxedo – or Italian leather shoes – in danger. It was his father's.

Once millionaire. Now billionaire. If Richard Cory was the dorsal fin of the financial shark, this man was the teeth.

"Sorry," Merlin blurted in an ingratiating mutter. " _Lo siento. Je suis desolee_. _Mea culpa_."

He actually bowed, trying to extricate himself from the awkward almost-altercation, but the elder Mr. Cory ignored him. So totally that he overheard what he was not meant to overhear, backing away not quickly enough.

"…Plenty of stupid decisions in your life, but this was the worst. According to the numbers, this ridiculous sun-room will show negative profit for at least two seasons, with another six to eight breaking even, and _at least_ five years before the return percentages are double digits!"

"That was taken into account, Father. I believe you're not giving enough weight to certain unquantifiable benefits-"

Mr. Cory Senior made a rude noise, turning to gesture for Gwen to handle plate-napkin-silverware and arrange his selection to order for him.

Merlin made his escape as swiftly and unobtrusively as possible. For the next half-an-hour he tried to keep both infamous father and son in the corner of his eye so he could avoid their general vicinity. And if they complained about lack of service from him personally, better that than anything more concretely negative.

Though, curious. He wouldn't have expected the golden boy to garner criticism from anyone, much less a parent. Didn't everyone's parents want kids like Richard Cory?

His luck took an upswing during the dinner, and it fell to some other poor sap to serve the table assigned to the Corys. Merlin tried to keep his back to them in laying out and picking up, two tables over, so no stray glance would remind either man to glare in such a way that would unnerve him enough to do some real klutzy damage, and draw the kind of attention that gets a server fired. So far, so good.

The serving staff was lined at the side of the room during the presentation, and in the dim lighting with everyone focused on the images projected onto a screen, Merlin managed to squeeze in next to Gwen. He wanted to re-live the children's party through her reactions, and he wasn't disappointed.

Soft gasps, big smiles, shining eyes, and a quick whisk-away of extra moisture when the presenter finished. Merlin had a moment to allow vague impressions of the future to half-form – some place like that sun-room, when he was working with children diagnosed with mental or emotional conditions…

"Can't wait to see it," Gwen whispered.

Then Cory the Elder stepped up to the microphone, and the attentive hush of the presentation died to absolute silence. He wasn't sunny or charming like his son – nor striking and vivacious like the legally-trained but less-publicized daughter.

Gwen admired her; part of that might have been a feminist-sympathetic reaction to the assumption of the entire financial kingdom being reserved for the male heir apparent. But the female Cory was so far out of Merlin's league he didn't bother paying attention to her appearance in various news outlets; he wasn't near as annoyed with that obsession as he was with the general fixation on Mr. Rich and Handsome. Everything and so much more than Merlin busted his butt for, just handed to him. And received with ungrateful boredom.

"Thank you all for coming tonight. We appreciate the show of support for this project from the community-"

From the community's top five percent, Merlin thought sardonically.

"When my son first broached the concept of this project-" He gestured to the side; Richard Cory straightened from his lounging position against one of the room's pillars; everyone applauded with polite enthusiasm. "I wasn't certain this day would ever come – this project seen to successful culmination. Not because he has a poor track record in business decisions…"

Well-bred titters rippled the room. A backhanded compliment – _you did fine son_ wrapped in _of course nowhere near my level of talent_ and garnished with, _we're rather surprised at this level of success from you._

"But because we'd already done several mammoth charity projects and we just weren't sure if the finances were going to allow for another one."

Flat smile. _Of course I support charity_. On top of _It's a necessary evil for a billionaire businessman_. But even charity was speculation, wasn't it, for someone like him? Always getting something back – like the positive press from tonight.

Merlin began to wonder why Richard Cory wasn't at the microphone, if this was his project – and pushed in spite of the expenses. As Cory the Elder – who still disapproved, evidently – began to expound each step of the process, simultaneously praising some instrumental individual and tacitly claiming credit, Merlin looked for the man's son. Didn't see him at the pillar, didn't see him through the rest of the room.

"So please enjoy the rest of your evening as our thanks for your contributions," the businessman concluded.

Merlin missed the rest of his remarks as the catering staff nudged each other back to action, down the line of elbows. Go again – who cares if you've been on your feet all day – you gotta glide like a swan with a tray of fancy single-bite desserts for another hour if you want rent money.

"Did you see where he went?" he said in Gwen's ear, following her a few steps as she headed back to her post at the corner of the table. He didn't have to say who he meant.

"No – maybe outside for some air?"

Merlin's reaction skipped over why he might need it. Rich boy probably met twenty interested and eligible girls a night. "Good – if I only have to worry about avoiding one Cory now…"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

He slipped out a side door of the ballroom before his father had finished the speech-ending toast, and made his way through dim empty corridors to a rear exit without seeing another person.

His heart thundered in his ears with every step, and his throat threatened to choke the air from his lungs no matter how many times he swallowed to clear it. He pushed through the rear exit explosively, harsh scraping noises echoing through the hall behind and the lot ahead of him, the valet-parked luxury vehicles of the events' attendees. He was probably lucky it wasn't an emergency exit, setting off alarms and bringing security running… He didn't have his keys. They were with the valet service desk.

He wasn't going back.

So he set off walking. Traffic was nonexistent in the alleys that divided the buildings of the city block from each other, lined with dumpsters and rutted with sewer grates. He was at the heart of a city, and he was alone. He had everything; he had nothing.

The alley ended on a four-lane street – he couldn't remember which one, or what compass points it connected. He paused in the wash of traffic noise – tires rubbing pavement, distant horns and shouts, music muffled and transitory. Laughter from the street corner where people loitered at the bus stop.

Just next to him, the neon sign of a liquor store blinked rhythmically. Beckoning. He turned his steps, and entered to a squeak of hinges and a garish chime of cheerful alarm. The lights inside cast a yellow-green stain over the rows of shelves of glass bottles, myriad colors and shapes and he thought of the story of the genie inside, all-powerful and wish-granting. Only that was a lamp, wasn't it.

"How's it going, mister…"

He turned to see the clerk – they two had the store to themselves for the moment. The man's forehead had receded past the crown of his head, shiny yellow-green, the same as his teeth, showing an overbite as he smiled. In a single moment, the man's expression changed from obsequious welcome to a searching puzzlement to a dawning recognition.

Damn the tuxedo.

"Evening," he said, forcing cheerfulness. And turned down the first aisle.

Vodka. Good enough. He grabbed at a tall slim cobalt-blue bottle, tucking it into his elbow and another clinking next to it and another, and a fourth in his free hand – because for _him_ , only one bottle was going to invite questions. And then to the check-out to expedite this encounter.

"Mr. – Cory, isn't it?" the clerk said, giving him a ghastly grin as he approached. "What brings you… here?"

He summoned an answering smile, full of charm that no one ever noticed was false. Sometimes, Morgana. But only sometimes.

"Hey, it's my party," he said lightly, setting the bottle down next to the cash register. "Can't let it run dry, can I? The Skyy's the limit."

The man didn't seem to catch the pun, avidly focused on absorbing his features and missing the first bottle he grabbed for.

He allowed the man his profile, distracting both of them by fishing out his wallet. A hundred-dollar bill – leave no hard evidence in the form of a credit card receipt or a signature in case the man tried to go public with his story. "The change is yours," he said, gathering up his bottles again. "Excellent service, by the way – keep it up."

And never mind the sarcasm.

He had to juggle a bit to get a hand on the door handle sufficient to trigger the jangling alarm and let himself out. And knowing that his suit and his vodka was going to draw attention on the street, he ducked back down the alley.

Found a dumpster lid handily ajar, and dumped three of the bottles. Thud-thud-whuff. Half-full of garbage. _A sad commentary on our times_. His life too, maybe.

Twisting the cap off the one remaining bottle, he took a careless swig – and coughed, almost spitting it back out. Awful stuff. Flavored like… _citrus_? Crap.

Anyway. He took another long series of swallows – get it down without noticing the taste - sauntering back down the deserted alleyway and well aware of the picture he presented if anyone caught him. That's why he wouldn't do this, normally. Get well and truly drunk, and he couldn't control the narrative – and he'd already had the champagne at the function dinner.

His father would emerge eventually from the conference center. Might ask if his car was still in the lot – probably the valet service had rules about discretion, but his father was… his father. They wouldn't even consider denying him an answer.

His heel turned on a broken bit of curb, and in stumbling, he chose to drop all the way to his butt on the crumbling lip of concrete. Probably when his was the last car in the lot, they'd call his cell. If he didn't answer, they might assume he'd hitched a ride with someone else. They might speculate who. They'd leave a message for him to arrange to get his keys the next day.

And meanwhile, they'd lock the keys safely away and go home to their beds and their families and their lovers, and he'd be stranded on the street all night. Someone might notice, and it might turn into… something embarrassing. And if he showed up the next day to get his keys still wearing rumpled evening-wear, there would be rumors. Unsubstantiated, but still.

He absolutely hated the fact that he couldn't stop thinking about being careful. Feeling that burden of _can't. have to_. Desperate to break free of stifling, smothering constrictions and knowing he wouldn't.

Another swig. Make it two. Make it three.

He considered the sewer grate half a step from his smeary-shiny shoe. He could dump the contents of his wallet to be washed away. Leave the wallet lying.

Smash the bottle – when it was empty – over his own head.

When it broke, he could use it on his forearms. Through his shirt. Defensive wounds from a mugging, maybe.

If it didn't kill him, it might earn him some damn rest in a hospital stay. Some sympathy with his father and Morgana. Fleeting and momentary. Nope I didn't get a clear view, officer…

What if he feigned brain damage, though? Would they let him retire to some quiet bungalow somewhere and someday forget to check that he was really brain-damaged?

There wouldn't be any fingerprints but his own on the bottle. Was it feasible to claim an unknown assailant had been wearing gloves.

Carefully he turned his hand on the cobalt-blue neck, switching his grip to be able to swing, not swig.

Just to see. Just to test. Just to feel the difference in the balance.

It would be less violent than running his car off the road like he'd swerved to avoid some nocturnal critter. Less pain, probably. More questions, though, if he wasn't too dead to answer them by the time anyone thought to ask…

His eyes shifted involuntarily past his contemplated bottle, to realize someone else was present, an unnoticed arrival. Black trousers, white shirt, bow tie.

One of his peers, he assumed, from the dinner.

He also assumed the charming grin, in lifting his head to deal with the intrusion and slipping his fingers back the right way on blue glass made slippery with condensation. "Helluva party, huh? I can't stand champagne, though – care for a taste of something harder? _This_ , this is a celebration."

"What the hell are you doing?" the man said. He sounded young, and bewildered, and maybe disgusted.

He blinked and focused a bit more on the one who'd joined him so abruptly. Black hair, awkwardly uncombed. Hands in his pockets. Cheap knock-off evening clothes, and another realization swam to him on vodka fumes. Not a peer. Serving staff. Dammit, that probably meant publicity…

Another wave of alcoholic effect, another realization of recognition.

"Holy hells," he said blankly. " _You_? Are you _stalking_ me?"

The orderly in navy scrubs at the hospital, carelessly sloshing puke-water. Somehow, also on the wait-staff for tonight's event, very nearly sloshing some kind of pâté all over his waistcoat.

The young man shifted as if he wanted to walk away. At least he didn't have his phone out, snapping pics or calling reporters. "You know your family owns half this town, right?"

He snorted. Did _not_ need reminding.

"So, half this town works for you. And those of us who need two jobs to pay the rent for one of your high-rises, we get to work for you twice."

"Bet that burns your ass," he said, baring his teeth to shift the charm of the smile. "Take your shot. Take a swing. Kick a man while he's down. Now's your chance – I may not even remember this, come morning."

The waiter-orderly shifted again, glancing back toward the conference center. "The party's over," he remarked. "Everyone who's anyone is gone."

He must have blanked on more than an hour, somehow.

"Some of the staff are still cleaning up. They said I could go – they didn't want my help."

"I wonder why," he said, goading. " _Cleaning_ is clearly not your forte."

The waiter-orderly looked at him again, not taking offense like Arthur wanted him to. "I was going to wait for my friend anyway…"

And abruptly, he stepped to the curb and crouched down to the edge, arms loosely wrapping his knees, close enough to lean and be able to touch.

"The hell are you doing?" he said blankly, unintentionally repeating the other's first words to him.

"Do you have someone you can call?" his unwanted companion said.

He scoffed derision for the idea that he would need help, but found his free hand fumbling in his pocket for his phone anyway. It seemed the thing to do, to turn it on and select his contacts list. And scroll through… and keep scrolling.

Name after name after name after name after name after…

No one. Maybe they'd respond, but they wouldn't be discreet, not for his sake. Not when gossip and shared notoriety was so much more titillating. He could pay for discretion and hope it was enough to last forever… and lose respect.

His contact list reached the bottom – Zach O. – and bounced. And bounced, refusing to give him more options.

But he did have another option, didn't he? His thumb shifted to Calls Made, and his mouth asked casually, "Is this Friday?"

"You mean is it still Friday, or is it past midnight?" the waiter-orderly said.

He ignored the non-answer, lifting the phone to his ear. Waiting for the familiar automated greeting giving him _options_. Waiting for a human voice to speak a perfunctory welcome in his ear – and then not waiting for her to finish.

"Is Merlin there tonight?"

Beside him, the waiter-orderly inhaled sharply through his nostrils, stiffening straight. He ignored him.

"No, I'm sorry he's not, but I'm pleased you chose to call us. What seems to be the problem you're currently experiencing?"

Words piled up on his tongue, clogging his throat, choking him. Everything. Nothing. People had _trauma_ , and he wanted to complain about family pressure and job tension and feelings of loneliness and isolation and incompetence?

"Um," he said, leaning his forehead into the chill of the vodka bottle, his elbow propped on the knee nearly level with his chin. "It's… nothing, really. I've just… called a couple of times, and talked to Merlin, and…"

 _And then I feel better?_ he mocked himself. _And it helps to_ talk _about my_ feelings.

It did help to talk about his feelings. Put words to his thoughts. Definition was the first step of control, maybe. And was there a step in there that was _surmounting_? But it seemed he couldn't do that with just anyone.

"I'm sorry, Merlin isn't here tonight."

Isn't here tonight. No one was here tonight. An existential answer.

"Sir? Can I-"

"You know what?" he said into the phone. "Never mind. This was a stupid idea anyway." He let his arm fall, ignoring the insistent squawking of the person trying to get him to open up.

He didn't open his eyes. On a sudden surge of temper and disgust, he threw his phone with a shattering clatter against the rough brick of the opposite wall of the alley. And couldn't help being aware that the younger man next to him flinched at the abrupt violence.

"Damn," the waiter-orderly said, forcing light amusement. "You really are a spoiled rich boy, huh? You can afford to destroy your own fancy expensive toys when you get upset."

He shook his head, setting the half-emptied bottle of vodka down with an unsteady clunk, and dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. "Go away," he said wearily. "Leave me alone, for the love of…"

"You sure you don't need someone to talk to?" his unsolicited companion said in a low voice.

He snorted, sounding sarcastic and feeling desperate. "I don't know you. I don't trust you. Go away."

The waiter-orderly shifted, and he was sure he was going to be left alone – was _annoyed_ more bearable than _lonely_? But the young man only pulled his wallet from his back pocket and shuffled through it.

"Sometimes I wonder if actual moths are going to flutter out of here someday," the waiter-orderly commented.

Inanely, in his opinion. But the shoulder that nudged his was a shock of presumptuous familiarity, and he could only glare incredulously with his eyes open. The other flipped a card selected from his wallet at him in invitation, and he didn't understand. There was nothing in this guy's wallet he wanted – but it wasn't a business card or a credit card. It was his government-issued ID.

"Here."

He took it almost involuntarily. "The hell is this?"

"Um. I find this mildly embarrassing too, but I'm pretty sure I'm not wrong. So I can't just walk away. Not that I would anyway, but…"

He studied the photo – it looked like the kid had just been stabbed with a pixie stick. Startled, and manically cheerful. He was a donor. So what?

"It's a small world after all, huh? You own my apartment building. You might as well own the hospital where I work, the college where I'm getting my degree. And then tonight…"

Still uncomprehending, he turned his head to stare into earnest compassion, and still he resisted. "What do you _want_ from me?"

His companion's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Look at the name, Arthur."

He was obeying the suggestion before the use of that name registered in fogged consciousness. Then another name registered. _Merlin Emrys. 211 Sunny Pines #503_ …

Merlin. He kept staring – stupidly – not even sure how to react. "Your name? is actually Merlin?" Because, _no one else…_

"Yeah. And _Arthur_ is…"

"My middle name," he said without thinking. He was screwed; he'd told Merlin – _this_ was Merlin? – so damn much. And now he knew, or at least could guess, so much more.

"What are the odds, huh?" Merlin nudged him again, giving an amused little huff of a chuckle. "I've never met anyone from the call center before – at least not that I know of."

Hells. Mustering as much threat as he could into his glare, two-thirds of his way into a bottle of citrus vodka, he threatened, "If you tell anyone, _anything_ -"

The startled look made an appearance. Along with something not unlike disappointment. "I wouldn't. I take code of conduct pretty seriously, and even if I didn't… I have principles. I wouldn't do that to a friend."

What.

He said, reluctant to surrender to the appeal of the word, "We're not friends."

"No, I know." Merlin shrugged. "But why not? We could be, maybe. You never know until you try."

It occurred to him, Merlin could have walked away, after realizing who he was. Only he didn't.

Because he was wealthy and powerful – and therefore useful and convenient and rewarding? Because of that private code of honor for people who coached strangers out of their pill-bottle-reverie funks?

"Why?" he asked, still stupidly. Because people didn't ask that question – or answer it honestly.

Merlin shrugged awkwardly, forearms crossed over his knees and long fingers wrapping his biceps loosely. He tucked his chin shyly, almost hiding a grin. "I'd kinda like to keep my jobs. And my home. And… I don't really have a lot of friends. I don't have _time_ to make new friends. Like you said, co-workers don't really count."

"I don't have any friends," his mouth said, independent of his brain.

Merlin didn't protest, or even act surprised. "You have me. And we can… hang out here… or go back to mine, if you want somewhere different to crash. Or ride the bus til they park it for the night, and talk. Or not."

He studied Merlin. Young and self-admittedly poor. Hard-working and hopeful. Willing to do what he needed – and not just to suppress or deny the issues, filling the time with expensive distractions selfishly shared for personal enjoyment. Maybe he was, exactly the way he sounded on the phone, in real life.

Was it worth taking the chance, to find out?

Again without thinking first, he said, "What do you want to do?"

"Need to call my roommate, probably, no matter what we decide," Merlin answered contemplatively. "Let her know whatever's going on."

 _Roommate_ and _her_ was an interest that cleared vodka-haze somewhat, and he remembered Merlin telling him that before, on the phone. Not girlfriend. There was a story there, and the fact that he was interested in someone's life – not resisting someone trying to get inside his life, but offering for him to join theirs… That was new – and it felt good. This was one of those ordinary people he never met, a decent friendly person who'd donate a kidney, or just a spare shirt.

Merlin blinked and lost his gaze as if surprised by another realization. "Should probably get some sleep at some point. Twenty-hour shift at the hospital tomorrow – and then I'm on at the call center tomorrow night. Not tonight, because of this gig…"

He had no desire to reclaim his keys and his car, right now, even if the valet staff were still around. Would anyone recognize him traveling on the bus? Maybe not in company with Merlin dressed so similarly, and being called by his middle name – which wasn't popularly known. And in the morning he could probably call for a car to pick him up from the hospital.

"If I crashed on your couch and borrowed a change of clothes?" he said tentatively. At least it would be a novel experience – and by morning he would know if the experiment in making a friend was a failure… or a success.

"For sure," Merlin said contentedly. "Except our couch is a rickety recliner – though I can sleep there if you want to borrow the bed... except, I haven't washed the sheets this week? The chair isn't too uncomfortable either, I've fallen asleep there studying, before. And if you don't fit my stuff, I think Gwen probably has some things of her boyfriend's that would. He's built like you."

He grunted. Maybe soon, but not just yet... and bonus, no one was going to bother him, calling his phone. He was free for hours, right now. _Sorry, I didn't get your message, I dropped my phone_ … He snagged the long frosty neck of the vodka bottle between his fingers, and swung it in Merlin's direction. "Help me finish this before we go?"

Merlin accepted with agreeable silence and tipped the bottle back for a healthy mouthful. "Gah. What is this stuff? Flavored… citrus infusion?"

"I just grabbed whatever," he defended. "The guy was looking at me."

Merlin snickered and nudged Arthur again with a bony elbow. "Think you'd be used to that by now…"

"You'd think," he agreed tiredly.

Merlin took another swallow, and passed the vodka back with a hard sigh that released the tension of a long day. He didn't say anything else, and something about the late hour and the dark, the background city-sound, the common stink of the alley, or the _not-being-alone_ , was a balm to Arthur's soul.

Tomorrow might be hard, the next day awful, next week miserable and his future unbearable… but maybe not. Maybe he'd finally found a safety net – an outlet. An escape, even if temporary and small, which would be enough to preserve his sanity and resolve. Maybe Merlin would be willing to procure a rusted pick-up and holey clothes and a ballcap for him to hide in. Drive down the coast for an unpublicized week off from _life_ …

And tonight… tonight he was all right.

He passed the vodka back to Merlin, who sipped pensively. "It's a nice night."

"Yeah, it is."

 **A/N: In my experience, all it takes is one person to be willing to listen – and then not to treat you any differently…**

 **(This isn't the end of their story, either, but it's all I'm writing – use your imagination for the rest. The vacation, and Gwen, and all…)**


End file.
